


Sunrise

by wkemeup



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Smut, a bunch of book recs, a super sweet and shy Bucky, a surprising amount of fluff given these warnings, veteran!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 64,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkemeup/pseuds/wkemeup
Summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is discharged from active duty and sent back to civilian life. Left with a storm of unchecked guilt, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 158
Kudos: 397





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> series playlist can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cKYKgOaVESqiWIyg59KLB?si=asbXitdpSrS7H4bXM6SMHg

This was a bad idea. A _monumentally_ bad idea. 

Bucky closed his apartment door behind him, pausing for a moment at the top of brownstone steps as a chill of autumn air swept by. Brittle to the touch, cool on his skin, it nestled into his spine and ached deep in his bones— in ones that had been long abandoned, too. The sun reflected against the shine of the pavement from last night’s rainfall, forcing Bucky to squint his eyes. 

_Was it always so bright outside?_ Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t left his apartment for nearly a week before Sam threatened to turn him over to Steve that he’d forgotten how unpleasant the streets of New York could be. Loud. Cold. Chaotic.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, slipping out of the path of a jogger who nearly ran him over and had the gull to flip _him_ the bird. Bucky groaned, curling his right hand into a fist and digging it deep into his pocket as he tried to calm the sudden racing in his chest. The free arm of his army jacket swung down by his left side, empty. 

Not even a few steps outside the sanctuary of closed curtains, warm bedsheets, and the unattended static of a decade old television, and Bucky was already regretting ever knowing Sam Wilson. 

Bucky turned towards the busy street ahead, staring up at the hustle of pedestrians and rush of taxis for a moment longer before he dared to take a step. His feet felt remarkably heavy and he had more than half a mind to tell Wilson to _shove it_ and head back up to his apartment. He had better things to do than make a completely unnecessary trip to the VA. 

What those things were, he couldn’t say, but they didn’t make his heart feel like it was about to beat straight out of his chest. He could stare at a wall for a few hours, for example – see if he could find the crack in the drywall again and follow it to the ceiling. 

“Don’t be a coward, Barnes,” Bucky grumbled to himself, earning a strange look from an elderly woman as she passed by. Her eyes held on him longer than she should; clearly a woman who had little shame in her degradation of strangers. 

He gritted his teeth and commanded his legs to move. _Those_ worked, at least. 

As he made his way to the main street, his palm started to sweat inside his pocket. He could see his breath in every tense exhale, and still, he was boiling hot under his jacket. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d remove it, because even with a sleeve hanging loose off his shoulder, he could at least keep up the pretense there was something inside. People would have to look twice before they realized. Wasn’t so easy to hide a missing arm in a short sleeve shirt. 

Still—he was thankful as he weaved his way upstream through the crowd that he wasn’t as broad as he used to be. A couple months’ worth of weight loss, diminished muscle mass, and one less limb will do that do a guy. 

He used to be the sort of man that women would glance at as he passed by. Charming smile. Infectious energy. He could make a woman bite shamelessly at the edge of her bottom lip with a single trail of his eyes along her figure. Extend a hand, offer a drink and a dance. He used to hold confidence in every ounce of his body. 

Now, he kept his eyes on the pavement. He hid from the sun and the curious looks of strangers under the brim of a baseball cap. No one looked twice in his direction. He was invisible these days and that was just the way he liked it. 

By the time he reached the VA, he was surprised to find it a little less than pristine. The windows were dirty with handprints and smudges, the window panes covered in soot. A few of the roofing panels were missing from harsh New York winters. Even some of the outer brick wall had seen some weathering. 

Though, if he were honest, it wasn’t usual at all. Made some sense that the VA was left to wash and wear on its own, deteriorating in front of a busy street of onlookers, right out in plain sight. It was how Bucky felt after he’d come home from his last tour— discarded.Placed upon a pedestal, but only as long as you wear the uniform, only as long as you’re staring down the other end of a barrel. Once you’re shipped back home and cast out from desert, you’re made to fend for yourself. Pull up your bootstraps. _Adjust._

Bucky wasn’t sure how to do that anymore. Sam insisted this would help. The people at the VA were good, he’d said. They were like him. They’d understand. 

While Bucky was suspicious, it was enough to drag him a couple blocks from his apartment. It was more than he’d done in weeks anyway. Sam would put on his makeshift shrink hat and call that a _meaningful step._ Bucky would call it pathetic. 

He stared at the double doors, focusing on dark red rust on the metal hinges. He wondered if he put enough pressure on the latch if it would snap clean off. It looked sharp on the edges, too. Someone could easily cut themselves on it if they weren’t careful—

_BEEEEEEP!_

A jolt surged through Bucky’s chest enough to nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Sudden flashes of a sweltering heat, the unnatural vibration of the desert under his feet. The car horn echoed into the back of his head, longer than it should have, and his ears started to ring. His vision felt tunneled and Bucky quickly stumbled his way through the double doors just to escape the blare of the horn outside. 

It took a minute to adjust to the dim lighting. It was darker inside than what he was expecting. He blinked a few times, hand resting on the wall to hold his balance as he looked around, shaking himself from the memories. 

Lamps were spread throughout the common room to offset the abrasive overhead lighting left untouched. Bucky started to wonder if he maybe it was on purpose, if he wasn’t the only one who had become sensitive to these things, when Sam walked into the room. 

He froze. 

“Holy shit!” Sam’s mouth rose up into that goddamn know-it-all smile, wide enough to show teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, and Bucky winced. Sam started to laugh as he crossed the space to where Bucky was standing. “I didn’t think you’d actually come!”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, “I’m here. Don’t make this a big thing.”

“Who _me?_ ” Sam scoffed, feigning offense. “You know Steve’s the one who’s going to blow this up. He might throw a welcome party if you ever show up to the support group.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s _not_ happening.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Sam nodded, though he was still smiling. He looked almost… proud? It didn’t sit well in Bucky’s stomach. “Still, got you out of that cramped apartment, didn’t I? You open those curtains yet or are you still living like a vampire?”

Bucky glared at him. Sure, Sam was right… but he didn’t need to know that. 

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Sam put a hand on Bucky’s back to guide him down the hall. 

He was only one of two people Bucky tolerated touching him at all and he was lucky he didn’t flinch anymore. Even an innocent touch from his own mother when she tried to hold his hand after he came back from his final tour had nearly left him in a panic attack. She’d cried as Bucky desperately tried to gather his breath, shoving her away as if she’d burned him. 

Sam and Steve didn’t give him much of a choice. They didn’t handle him with kid gloves or treat him like he was about to break. Even if he was splintering at the seams, you’d never be able to tell with how Sam and Steve were around him; like old times, like nothing had changed, like they were still three kids dressed in fresh uniforms with chips on their shoulders and a whole new world ahead of them.

After a while, the small pats on the back and the nudges in his side became a small comfort; not that he’d tell them. It was a strange feeling to both be repulsed by touch and crave it. But the topic didn’t come up much these days outside of his friends anyway. No one tried to touch him and he didn’t seek it out. It was easier that way. 

“The kitchen’s over here,” Sam said as he pointed into a room that had likely once been covered in white tiles and appliances, though now resembled more of a pale yellow. Two men were hunched over at the table, nursing coffee out of Styrofoam cups as a woman waited eagerly by a toaster. 

“Everything in there is free rein,” Sam added. “Always stocked with food from donations, though I would make sure to check the expirations on the milk before adding it to your coffee.” He shivered at an unpleasant memory and Bucky found the edge of his mouth curl, though he suppressed it rather quickly. 

The next room was mostly empty save for the wooden lined floors and chairs folded up against the wall. A sheet covered the small window peering inside that read _‘group in session when closed.’_

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam started, to which Bucky narrowed his eyes, “but I’m not going to force you into the support group, Buck. You go when you’re ready. If you ever are. Talking about this stuff, or even listening to it… it isn’t for everybody. Steve will get that, too. We all find our outlets eventually. You’ll find yours, too.” 

Bucky nodded, a swell of relief in his chest. He’d been forced into a mental evaluation by the army docs shortly after his discharge; something about routine testing, but he knew what they were looking for – what _all_ those shrinks were looking for – _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder._

The nightmares came first, soon after he’d returned to the States. It started in screams that burned deep into his throat, waking up neighbors at two in the morning, finding blood in his bed from injuries he’d caused in his sleep. Lately they’d manifested into sweat drenched in his sheets and a heart rate that couldn’t seem to even out until the sun rose. 

Then came the jumpiness – the flinching at every loud noise, thinking it was a bomb or the latch of a safety. He’d broken more glasses than he cared to admit, knocking them straight of his hand at the sound of a gunshot on the television. 

Then the paranoia settled in, then the hypervigilance. The anxiety in crowds and tight spaces was new, though. Add it to the list, he supposed. 

Through all of it, he never let the shrink catch on. He’d put on a smile and tell them he was proud of his service, that he’d serviced his country with honor and he was thankful to return to the civilian side of things for a change. 

It was bullshit. 

He was pissed. He lost an arm and half his mind to a war that recruited him young and idealistic right out of high school, when he was looking for a better life than what his neighborhood could offer, to put food on the table for his ma and sister. _Pissed_ was understated. 

He wouldn’t find himself in Steve’s group; of _that_ he was certain. You don’t talk about those things after you leave the desert. Hell, you barely acknowledge them while you’re there. It’s just how it works. It’s how you deal with it. Bucky didn’t allow himself to consider whether his method was doing him much better.

Sam walked him through the common areas, the lounge space, even a room with a pretty decent sized television and a shelf filled with DVDs. It was a nice enough place. Quiet. But so was his apartment. 

“Now _this_ is the best room in the house.” Sam opened a door on his left, the hinges squeaking under an old wooden frame as he stepped inside. 

Bucky followed in closely behind and was surprised when a subtle scent of pine brushed his senses. A small candle was burning at the center of a coffee table, surrounding it were a few couches, all with mismatched fabrics, laid upon a carpet that looked to have been donated from an estate sale. The walls around him were lined with shelves, though they were completely empty. Cob webs hung in the corners and dust lined the wood. 

What caught his eye was a single cart at the edge of the room. It was filled with books, all in bright colors on the binding and tags from the Brooklyn Public Library piled high on top of one another, far beyond the confines of the cart itself. 

“Y/n? Where you at, kid? We got a newbie!” Sam called, nudging Bucky in the side with a playful wink he did not return. 

A figure suddenly jumped from behind the couch with a book in hand covered in layers of dust and crumbs. The sudden movement forced a flinch deep in Bucky’s chest, his breath held tight in his lungs, though he kept himself firm on the surface, like stone. It took a minute before he realized how tight he’d barreled his fist and he slowly released his grip before Sam could notice. 

“Been looking for this one for over a year!” you exclaimed, holding up the book for Sam to see. You brushed off the cover, restoring the original vibrant hue of the artwork. “Can’t even imagine the overdue fees I’ve racked up on this sucker…”

There was a strange lightness in your voice Bucky didn’t expect, a tenderness and a sunshine that didn’t belong amongst the dark overcast of the men and women who occupied these rooms. It certainly sat in dangerous contrast to the gravel and stone in Bucky’s voice and the clouds that usually followed in his wake.

He glanced down at his clothes as you approached; a pair of old ripped jeans from a few years ago, a faded t-shirt, and his army jacket hung over his shoulders. Dull and raggedy, ripping at the seams.

But you? Dressed in the warmest shade of a red knit sweater, a gentle glow on your cheeks, a softness about your movements, you resembled the sort of sunset at the end of a highway one would stop the car to capture on film. Inviting. Tender and ethereal. Lovely. 

You stepped closer and he noticed the knees of your jeans were covered in dust, your palms too. Messy in the pursuit of happiness, like a child on a playground. You didn’t seem to mind the dust as you brushed it off your knees, holding the found book close to your chest like an extension of your own heart.

“Blame it on Lang. He’s always losing stuff around here,” Sam offered as you set the book on the cart. You started to laugh and swatted Sam in the arm. A pout perched on your lips, though it didn’t seem to last long. Your laugh was infectious. 

Bucky swallowed as he watched you; the way your smile wrinkled up into your eyes as if a face like yours was drawn and designed to curve at the lips and push dimples to your cheeks. It shined into the bright hues in your irises and Bucky wondered if you would keep smiling like that forever, if it were possible that he could stare into the sun and not be burned; if instead, he could find warmth in its embrace. 

His heart stammered, his breath shallow, but it wasn’t unpleasant like it had been on the busy streets. It was something new, a sensation he hadn’t had since before he signed his name to a cause that took his arm and his dignity. 

_Y/n,_ Sam had called you. It was a beautiful name. He didn’t know if he could even find things beautiful again after what he’d seen overseas. You were the first, he supposed. 

He must have been staring too long, because your lips were moving to words he didn’t hear, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were on him. His heart skipped, frozen in embarrassment. 

“This must be your first day of school,” you teased, extending your right hand to him. 

Bucky stared down at it, heart pounding, and before Sam could politely tell you that Bucky didn’t really _do_ that sort of thing, he pulled his hand from his pocket and shook it. You had a firmer grip than he was expecting, but still soft. Your fingers were like ice and it was a nice contrast to the swelter he felt under his jacket. 

Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised by Bucky’s sudden willingness to take the hand of a stranger, though thankfully he didn’t say anything. A shit eating grin curved up upon his lips and _that,_ Bucky could have done without. 

“Thought it was time I checked it out,” Bucky said, his voice a little dry. You let go of his hand and Bucky found he missed the contact almost instantly. 

“Dragged him here by the skin of his teeth is more like it,” Sam interjected and Bucky’s ears burned red. He shot Sam a glare, who only shrugged, unbothered by his humiliation of his friend. “Been trying to get his sorry ass through the door for a few months now.”

You nodded, though your smile never wavered. Your eyes remained on Bucky, listening to Sam, but intently studying the lines on Bucky’s face. It left him feeling exposed, but somehow, even as his own gaze trailed to the floor, he didn’t mind you watching him like that, like maybe you found worth in what you saw. He adjusted his stance, suddenly remembering the startling absence on his left. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” you said, brushing Sam off in his teasing. “I’ve been volunteering at this place for a little over a year. We got good people here. I’m sure you’ll fit right in…” you paused, biting on your lip. 

“Bucky,” he offered because he could tell you were waiting for it. You smiled at his name and a sense of pride burned bright in his chest. God, if he could just make you smile like that again…

“Bucky’s a cool name,” you grinned, though Sam rolled his eyes. “That short for something?”

“Don’t lie to the new kid, Y/n. We all know it’s corny as hell,” Sam interrupted playfully before Bucky could get a word in. You wacked Sam on the shoulder and Bucky felt the edges of his lips curve. It felt strange, achy, like he hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe he hadn’t. 

“Buchanan,” Bucky answered, though he quickly added, “but my first name’s James. James Barnes.”

“Well, _James Barnes_ ,” you started, exchanging a knowing look with Sam that made Bucky’s stomach twist in knots, “I run a book club of sorts on Sunday evenings around six. You should swing by. We’re always looking for new members.”

“Y/n works at the Brooklyn library most days,” Sam explained. “We’re lucky to have her. Never thought I’d see so many tattooed men with biceps the size of my head sitting in a circle talking ‘bout books, but Y/n works magic. Everyone loves her. Helps that her book club is pretty unconventional.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Unconventional?”

Sam started to say more, but you pouted your lips at him and he left the words on the edge of his tongue. He held up his hands in defense and took a step back, returning the smile to your face. 

“Don’t listen to him,” you said, laughing so sweetly Bucky was sure his knees might give out at any second. “It’s a good time, I promise. No pressure at all.”

Bucky nodded, considering his options. The idea of seeing you again could make the walk down to the VA worth it, but he wasn’t sold on the concept of sitting in a room full of ex-combat vets probably using a shared book as a proxy for a support group. He wondered if you had them reading something about PTSD or adjusting to civilian life or a memoir of some guy embellishing his time overseas to make a quick buck. 

But he wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, so he asked, “what are you reading?” 

You shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, confused. 

“Just think about it,” you suggested as you unclicked the lock at the bottom of the cart. The front wheel was broken and you struggled to get an angle to move in the direction you pushed it. “I should head back to the library. It was really nice to meet you, Bucky. I’ll see you later, Sam.”

Bucky nodded, finding himself searching for something else to say, some kind of excuse to get you to stay longer, but came up empty. You smiled at him, all bright and starry eyed, and his knees felt weak again. _Shit._

“Don’t let Stark talk your ear off on the way out,” Sam warned, a laugh in his voice. 

“I think I know my boys around here by now, Samuel,” you teased back. Bucky couldn’t quite tell if it was a pang of jealousy in his stomach or an eagerness to be included. It was a strange rush of feelings he hadn’t tapped into in years; not necessarily unpleasant, but certainly unfamiliar. 

You paused by the door, turning back and capturing Bucky’s eye one last time. “Sunday at six, alright? I’ll see you there.”

He didn’t say anything, but you seemed to take his silence as confirmation. You gave him a final wave before you disappeared into the hallway. He could hear the click of the broken front wheel on your cart echoing down the hall. 

Bucky and Sam followed you out of the room and hung back by the makeshift library doors. 

“What did I tell you!” Sam cheered, nudging Bucky hard enough on the side to knock him off his balance. He was too fixated on watching grumpy old men and stone-faced women pass by in the hallway with smiles on their faces as they saw you. 

“It’s, uh, it’s not bad.” Bucky waited until you disappeared out the front doors and onto the busy sidewalks before he turned to Sam. He was watching him with a sort of I-told-you-so look that made Bucky want to slap the dimples straight from his face. “…what?”

“Nothing, man.” Sam shrugged, though there was something lingering in the smirk he wore, like maybe he knew something Bucky didn’t. 

He didn’t care for that one bit.


	2. Two

"What the hell do you mean _‘you’re not going’_?”

Bucky shrugged, taking a bite of the bagel Steve picked up on his way to the apartment. He flinched as Steve flung open the curtains, expelling a cloud of dust as the sunlight invaded the living room, illuminating over months of untouched mail on the coffee table and crumbs in the carpet. 

Sam kept his eyes burning on Bucky from the other end of the table. “You can’t back out now, Barnes. She’s expecting you!”

“What’s this about again?” Steve asked as he slid into the chair beside Bucky. 

“Book club. Y/n. Barnes is being a coward again,” Sam explained a little too nonchalantly for Bucky’s taste. 

“I’m not being a coward,” Bucky grumbled, avoiding Sam’s eyes and very much proving his friend’s point. “I’ve just— I’ve got better things to do.”

He regretted it the moment it left his lips because both Sam and Steve exchanged a less than subtle, irritatingly familiar glance. 

“Yeah, like what?” Steve scoffed. He extended his arms out to gesture to the empty apartment. “You got tons of plans this week? Think you might see sunlight again or did someone hang garlic in the hallway?”

“Shut up,” Bucky warned, rolling his eyes. It had been a few days since he’d ventured out to the VA for the first time and it was more than he’d done in weeks. It should have been enough for these two, but it never was. They always wanted more out of him. They couldn’t just leave him to rot in his apartment, could they?

“It’s Sunday, you know,” Sam said, devilish smirk rising on his face. 

Bucky gritted his teeth. “Yeah, I’m well aware.” 

“Come on, man!” Sam groaned, slamming his hand on the table enough to cause a ripple in the coffee mugs. “I saw the way you were looking at her. You can’t tell me seeing her again isn’t a good enough reason to go…”

Bucky’s cheeks flushed red. They burned hot on his skin and it only seemed to make it worse. He’d never been like this before he was discharged – flustered and easily embarrassed. He supposed before he came home with one less limb and baggage the size of his living room, he didn’t have much to be embarrassed about. He was a flirt, a bit shameless about it, too. He’d had girlfriends and hookups and never thought much about it. 

But now? The vague idea of even presuming to be interested in a woman was borderline laughable. What chance could he possibly have? He was washed up and broken, missing a few pieces, and half off his rocker. There wasn’t a chance in hell you’d go for a guy like him. It was easier to just pretend like he didn’t care, give into the empty void he believed his heart to be, and waste away. 

“Seeing her again _isn’t_ a good enough reason to go,” Bucky said flatly, much to Sam’s annoyance. It was a bold-faced lie, one all three of them were well aware of, but it didn’t mean Bucky needed to give them the satisfaction of admitting it. 

He thought of you in that sunset red sweater, holding a book tight to your chest with that sort of bright starlight look in your eyes as you listened intently to a retired vet go on and on about his personal connection to some corny book. He’d only met you for maybe a span of a few minutes, and still, he could somehow still picture your smile. He wanted to see it again. 

But there was a sharp pain in his left arm; it burned, enough for Bucky to reach across his chest and try to put pressure on it, only to slip through thin air and land against his ribs. The pain remained, like an extension of himself, on an arm that was no longer apart of him. There and not there all at once. He groaned. 

“It’s not a good enough reason, Sam,” Bucky repeated. “I’m not going. She probably won’t even notice.”

Another lie. 

Sam shook his head, the smile quickly leaving his face in favor of one Bucky knew all too well. Disappointment. Frustration. The thing was, it didn’t hurt as much when Bucky was purposeful in creating it. 

“I thought you liked her?” Steve asked cautiously, eyes catching Sam’s for only a moment before he turned back to Bucky. They’d been talking about him. He hated when they did that. 

“I don’t even know her, Steve,” Bucky shot back. He shouldn’t be getting angry with them. They were only trying to help. And yet here he was – pushing away the only two people left in his life that still managed to tolerate him. He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, trying to push past it. “She’s nice, okay? She’s pretty. Is that what you want me to say?”

Steve sat back in his chair, exhausted. “I want you to be happy, Buck.”

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, well, shoulda thought of that before I got myself blown up.”

“ _Bucky_ –”

“Let it go, man,” Sam sighed, setting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

Bucky felt like he could sink straight into his chair. _Why did he always do this?_

“I hope you change your mind,” Sam said simply, gathering up his things as he and Steve started to make their way to the door. “It could be good for you.”

Bucky knew what he meant by that, the underlaying message hidden just beneath the surface: _she_ could be good for you. 

Right on cue, the pain started up again in his arm that was both there and not there, and Bucky tried to grit his teeth through it, though Sam could spot the tells almost immediately: his right-hand gripping to the arm rest, the flinch in his jaw, the short tense breaths. 

Sam sighed, pausing in the door frame. “We’ll be back in a few days. Try to clean up the place, will you? It’s a shithole in here.”

“Ma said she’d bake you cobbler if you promise to eat it,” Steve offered, too hopeful for his own good. It had been Bucky’s favorite once; the sort of dessert he talked about on desert nights when the mess hall served day old meatloaf and bland potatoes. He didn’t have much of an appetite these days. 

Bucky forced out a smile for his friend’s sake and nodded. 

A familiar silence swept over the apartment as the door closed behind them. It had been a comfort once; a darkness that swept around his shoulders like a blanket. It kept him isolated and suffocated and still, _safe_. 

Now, it mocked him.

He stared at the knob on the door, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table. He’d done this about a dozen times before, trying to convince himself to do something more with his days than waste away in an expensive one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. 

Steve was right. What the hell else was he going to do today? Stare at the wall for a few hours? Pretend to watch TV and not catch a single word of dialogue? Make a meal he wouldn’t eat?

He thought of you again. How you might scan the room in search of him and a frown might pull at the corner of your lips to not find him amongst the crowd. He wondered if you’d be dressed in yellow or orange or if you’d resemble a cloudless sky as the sun touched over the peaks of the city in soft pinks and purples.

He wanted to know so badly it was killing him. 

“Fuck.” 

He dragged his feet to the bedroom to find something half decent to wear. 

***

It had been a less than ideal start to your day. 

The children’s reading presentation at the library got a little out of hand when the speaker – a local theater student – got caught up in the voices and scared half of the toddlers to tears as he took some interesting liberties with _The Cat in the Hat._

Then, a rather unpleasant woman yelled at you for twenty minutes about a man sleeping on the bench outside the near the entrance as if it were a personal affront that this man, a little down on his luck, dared to catch a few minutes of sleep in a public place. 

The internet was shotty all day, leaving a few college students red in the face and with fat tears matching those of the toddlers in the next room over when hours’ worth of work had suddenly disappeared in front of their eyes. 

And of course – the teenagers. A band of four boys who hid under the brim of baseball caps with skateboards tucked under their arms, who found it rather amusing to stalk out the adult section and flip through the sorts of novels with bare chested men on the cover until their snickering could be heard from the floor below. 

It warranted a coffee, at least. 

The only solace was that it was Sunday. Your favorite day of the week. It meant a few hours at the VA and catching up with the guys. You hadn’t seen Natasha in a while and you were hoping to see how her new job at the security firm had gone. She was exceptionally qualified and you were almost certain you had _her_ interview answers memorized by the time you’d finished practicing together. 

But there was something different about _this_ Sunday, something that left a few butterflies in your stomach where an easy contentment usually belonged. You were nervous, but there was an excitement, too. 

There’d be a new face in attendance. 

A beautiful face. 

A face that you imagined required a double take were you to see it for the first time on a busy street. 

“You’re smiling again there, darling.”

You looked up to find Mrs. Jefferson keeping a careful eye on you from over the top of her reading glasses. She wore a smile upon her face, one that blended into the laugh lines by her eyes. Her hand trembled with a familiar quiver as she reached up and slid the glasses off her nose. They rested comfortably on a purple beaded chain as they hung around her neck. 

“You always have so much going on inside that head of yours,” she quipped, chuckling to herself. She was a slow mover as she turned to the computer to begin typing in her code. “Have you checked out the books for the VA yet?”

“Already done,” you confirmed, your mind still a little in the clouds. Coffee would definitely need to be a requirement before you stepped foot in the VA. 

“Get a move on then,” Mrs. Jefferson said, gesturing to the door with a trembling hand. “I know you like to get donuts for the kids.”

You still had a few minutes left on shift, but Mrs. Jefferson was always so understanding. She had a son who was in the military once who saw about four tours. Always had a habit of going back, she’d said, like he was testing his luck. You weren’t sure how he’d died, but you knew he didn’t have the chance to go back for a fifth. 

She was a part of a group no one wanted to be in: those who have lost someone to war. Membership cost was steep and there was no going back once it was paid. It was a lonely group, one far too many people occupied. Your own membership card was heavy in your pocket. 

You glanced toward the door. The sun was shining bright on the pavement. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

She smiled. “Yes, of course, dear. Tell the boys I said hello.”

“Yes, ma’am!” you called as you gathered your things and the shoulder bag stuffed with books and quickly scurried out the door before another disaster could reel you back inside. 

The sun was warm on your skin and you took a minute to savor it before shoulders started to bump into you, forcing you off balance. You could see your breath in the autumn air, and still, the sun touched your cheeks and left behind a comfort there. Smile on your face, heavy bag draped over your shoulder, you resided to grab coffee and donuts at a café close to the VA before book club started. 

It was one you visited a few times before, right across the street from a painfully busy Starbucks. The quaint coffee shop was often empty inside, save for a few college students with headphones in, typing away at their laptops, and a regular you often saw nursing a black coffee by the front windows, watching the people as they walked by. 

It smelled of coffee beans as you stepped inside. Fresh. Aromatic. You took in a deep breath. 

“Ah, Y/n!” a voice called from the back in a thick Columbian accent. “It’s good to see you again!”

“Hi, Luciana,” you laughed as the woman who owned the shop rounded the corner behind the counter and ran out to give you a hug. She was a tiny woman, short and shout, but her hugs could render even a giant of a man to a puddle. 

“Donuts for your friends down at the VA again?” she asked, releasing you from her embrace, though she still managed to pinch your cheek on the way out. 

“Yes, please!”

“And coffee for yourself?” 

She knew you too well. 

“I could use a bit of a pick-me-up,” you admitted. She knew your order by heart. 

“You should see if that Sam wants to have some good coffee for a change at his next event instead of the bean water he serves our veterans now,” Luciana inquired as she pulled on a pair of gloves and began to stack your box with assorted donuts. She had that smile on her face you recognized well. She asked about Sam a lot. 

“I’ll be sure to get his thoughts,” you replied, trying to stifled a smile. 

“Have him come by,” she offered rather smoothly. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen his pretty face and I could use a little pick-me-up myself.”

She winked at you and set the box of donuts on the counter. Then, your coffee; lid pressed on top, cardboard around the edges to protect from heat. You reached for your wallet but she snuck her hand over the counter and grabbed your wrist. 

“No, no, not today, my dear. My treat.”

You parted your lips to protest but she shook her again. 

“Tell those kids to come visit me every once in a while, okay? I’ve got a discount for ‘em,” she offered, bright smile over painted red lips. She waved you off and you knew there was no arguing with her. 

“That’s very kind of you, Luciana. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.” 

“So will my business, dear.” There was that wink again. 

You laughed, heading for the door. “I’ll see you next week!”

The bell rang on your way out. 

The VA wasn’t more than a few blocks from Luciana’s, but the bag piled high with books was starting to weigh on your shoulder. It didn’t help that you had to weave expertly between the pedestrians to balance your coffee and the donut box, too; tourists walking about 10 mph too slow and locals stuck in their path with no qualms of shoving you out of their way if you managed to jump in their trajectory. 

As you approached the VA, the crowd began to disperse. There weren’t too many people who frequented this street as there was little more than the VA building itself to occupy the tourists. You were surprised to find a man standing in front of the doors, staring up at the building as if it offended him in some way. 

Dark brown hair tucked under a baseball cap, just barely peeking out at the nape of his neck. Right hand tucked deep into his pocket, rigid in his stance as he stared down the double doors. He was talking to himself, you realized, judging by the soft clouds of chilled air by his mouth. 

James Barnes.

_Bucky._

A smile suddenly took over your face, enough that you had to bite down on the edge of your lip in an effort to suppress it. You’d hoped he would come, but Sam had talked about his friend Bucky long before you met him in the empty library of the VA a few days prior. He didn’t say ‘yes’ to much of anything and he seemed to be the sort of soldier that got left behind by the system when he returned home. 

But he was sweet. You could tell that just from the small interaction you’d had. Quiet. A little flustered. Maybe reserved. But he had beautiful eyes; blue, like they could capture even the faintest colors in the sky and the sweep of a current in the Mediterranean. He’d only barely lifted the corner of his lips to a smile that day and it left you wondering how lovely he was when it touched his eyes. 

“Bucky!” you called, moving a little quicker now as you approached, but he didn’t seem to hear you. Still focused on his staring match with the building, it seemed. For a moment, it seemed as though he might be turning to leave and your stomach twisted. 

You were nearly at his side, a little out of breath when you called his name again and it registered this time. Only, it must have startled him because an arm jutted out in your direction, knocking the coffee from your hands. You were too stunned to do much of anything about it as they coffee flung itself to the pavement, the contents spilling to the ground and over your sneakers. You clutched the box of donuts tight to your chest. 

Bucky froze, almost as still as a statue, his eyes focused on the coffee spilled on the sidewalk. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch and slowly, his eyes drew up to meet yours. He stared at you for a moment, mouth falling agape. His ears were burning red. 

Then, he seemed to come back to reality as he blinked a few times, his eyes darting from the shock on your face to the coffee on the sidewalk. 

“Y/n! Shit— _fuck!_ I am— _so_ sorry,” he started to ramble, his hand reaching out, though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “I didn’t realize you were– _fuck_ —”

“It’s alright, Bucky,” you tried to ease him, a laugh in your voice. “Don’t worry about it. Probably didn’t need the caffeine anyway.” 

“I should, um,” he looked around desperately, scanning the street for the nearest coffee shop, his hand clenching and releasing at his side in a repetitive squeeze. It was really sort of sweet. “Let me buy you a new one.”

You smiled at him and he softened a bit. “That’s really not necessary.” 

He gritted his teeth as you bent down to pick up the empty cup and shook the excess coffee off your shoes. They were old sneakers anyway and you were looking for a halfway decent excuse to get new ones. Then came a shy ex-soldier barreling in from the sky with a strong aversion to your coffee. 

“I knew this was a bad idea…” 

He was talking to himself, grumbling under his breath, and you realized why he was staring at the building for so long. You took a step closer to him, studying the way his chewed on the inside of his cheek and shoved his right hand into his pocket. 

“Is it?” you asked.

Blue eyes flickered to yours, brows furrowed. He didn’t think you’d heard him. “Sorry?”

You just smiled at him, shaking your head. You’d been working at the VA long enough to recognize the man behind the soldier; one who’d been beaten and bruised and left to waste the second he was dropped back on American soil. Constantly beating himself up, constantly wondering if he was doing the wrong thing and struggling to be the version of himself he was before the war.

“So, _James Barnes_ ,” you grinned, “you decide if you’re coming in or not? It’s a little chilly out here. Don’t want you catching a cold.” 

Bucky stared back at you, unsure. But you could see the tension easing off his shoulders. His right hand was hanging back at his side again as his eyes flickered up to the doors again. 

“Come on.” You smiled at him again and you noticed pretty quickly that he softened when you did that. It made your stomach flutter. You took a step forward, hoping he’d follow behind. “There’s shitty coffee inside we can share before book club starts.” 

“I don’t even know what you’re reading,” he admitted, that sweet nervousness taking over again. 

“You don’t need to,” you shrugged and his brow scrunched up again, confused. You glanced back at the doors. “Well, I’m going inside. I hope I see you there.”

With that, you turned and shouldered your way through the doors, donut box clutched tight to your chest. You waited by the entrance until you heard the soft grumble of a graveled voice outside, and then, footsteps as they approached the door.

You smiled.


	3. Three

Bucky stared down at the fresh coffee stained on the sidewalk; a caramel puddle nestling into the cracks and stretching along the lines until it spilled out into the street. He could smell the bitterness and the sweetness in the cream, the steam of it still warm as it filtered up into the cold, autumn air. He cursed at himself under his breath. 

You’d looked so beautiful, even with your eyes wide in shock and lips parted in a gasp as coffee spilled to your shoes. Dressed under an army green overcoat, a sliver of a burnt orange sweater peaked out from underneath. He’d seen that particular shade before, cast over a forest of evergreens and reflecting into the clouds, just above the sun as it set over the tree line. 

But he’d made a fool of himself in front of you and he could still feel the burning in his ears. He felt hot under his jacket and he found himself glancing down the street, wondering if he could make a run for it. Only, you were waiting for him inside and Bucky couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing you.

Gathering what remained of his courage, Bucky parted the double doors and stepped inside. It took a minute to let his eyes adjust, but when the dim lighting came into view, he noticed you were standing by the entrance waiting for him like you’d known he’d decide to follow. You beamed as he caught sight of you and his stomach twisted straight to knots. You were still clutching the donut box to your chest, almost as if you were afraid he’d knock that out of your hands, too. 

“Come on, you can help me set up.” You gestured down the hall to the room he met you in a few days prior. The library with no books on the shelves and cobwebs in the corners. “We’ve got to get you a book before the others show up.”

Bucky nodded, though he didn’t say anything as he followed you. It was pretty quiet without so many people lingering around, but everyone seemed to smile as you approached; perking up from under their clouds and called out your name until you waved back at them. It was like you carried sunshine in your pockets and comfort in your presence, breaking away stormy skies as you passed by. 

Before you could reach the library door, Bucky rushed out ahead of you and grabbed a hold of the knob. You paused, eyes catching his for a moment and a pink filtered into his cheeks. He cleared his throat. 

“Figured I could do one decent thing today after I ruined your shoes,” he explained, pulling open the door for you. 

“You showed up, didn’t you?” you added with a wink. “I count _two_ decent things today, James Barnes.”

He chuckled at that, nodding. “Y-Yeah, okay.” 

You set the donuts on the coffee table and began to push the furniture around into a circle. You shouldered most of your weight into the couch to get it to budge and Bucky couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips just watching you. Concentrated frown on your face, determination in your eyes, staring down the couch as if it were your sworn enemy. 

“You need help with that?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the couch that barely moved a few inches while you were out of breath. 

You glanced up at him over the spine of the couch, nodding gratefully. “This one always gives me trouble.”

“I’m sure if you waited for the others to show up, they’d help you move these around,” Bucky said as he placed his right hand on the back of the armrest, his knee digging into the center of the back. You stood next to him, hands on the frame to help push despite the fact that Bucky was strong enough, even without his left arm, to move the couch on his own. But he liked the idea of you beside him, so he didn’t say anything. 

“Oh, I’m sure they would,” you exhaled as they couch slid perfectly into place within the circle. “They all work so hard though, you know? It’s nice to have them just walk in and sit down for a change. Don’t need them thinking I’m expecting work out of them, too.”

“Ah, so that’s why I’m here, then…” 

He was surprised by the teasing in his own voice. When was the last time he made a joke? He couldn’t even remember. But you started to smile, that brightness shining right up into your eyes, and it didn’t matter anymore. He’d make a thousand jokes if you would keep looking at him like that. 

“Careful now,” you warned, a glimmer in your eye. “I might need you to help move this couch every week…”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” 

He didn’t know where this was coming from or how it slipped off his tongue so easily, but he liked the way it seemed to catch your off guard. You stilled for a second, a nervous laugh under your breath as you quickly tucked away a few strands of fallen hair. You were flustered. _Shit._ He was done for. 

“Haven’t even seen one meeting and you’re offering to move couches for me on a weekly basis? Consider me eternally grateful, James Barnes.” You plopped down on the couch, reaching for the strap of your bag, though it was a few inches out of reach. 

Bucky leaned down and picked up the bag, surprised to find it as heavy as it was, and gently set it in your lap. He took a seat on the couch on your left, though he left considerable room between you. You started digging through the bag, pulling out book after book and setting them on the table. 

“We’ve got to pick your book of choice,” you explained, smiling at him and clearly eager to see what he would select. “Anything you want. I can get something else from the library for next week if you’re not interested in these. I’ve got some guys reading _Harry Potter_ for the first time. Lang’s on the second _Twilight_ book. Romanoff is halfway through _The Odyssey_. Barton’s about a few pages to the end of a murder mystery he guessed the plot twist of within the first ten pages, which is just downright infuriating…”

Your nose was all scrunched up and it was the damn near cutest thing Bucky had ever seen. He must have been staring for too long though, because you raised a brow at him. 

Bucky cleared this throat, quickly looking away. He scratched nervously at the back of his neck and tried to steer the conversation strictly away from how adorable he found you. 

“Isn’t the point of a book club to read the _same_ book?”

“I suppose,” you shrugged, “but not my book club. The whole point is just to help these guys feel comfortable, give them a moment of peace, even if it’s for an hour once a week. Sometimes we’ll sit around the circle and talk about what we’re reading. Lang’s working really hard to sell the _Twilight_ books to the rest of the group despite being about a decade late to the game. Most times though, we just read, listen to some music. It’s quite nice, actually.”

So that was what Sam meant by unconventional.

“I don’t know the last time I read anything,” Bucky admitted slowly. He could barely get himself to concentrate on a single newspaper article these days, let alone an entire book. He often caught himself staring at the TV and realizing an episode later that he didn’t have a clue what had happened. 

“A lot of the guys take breaks,” you offered, seemingly reading his mind. “That’s what the donuts are for. Oh, and the coffee, of course.”

You jumped up, making your way over to the pots sitting on the table lining the wall. The pots were already filled and he wondered who took the time to do that for you before you even arrived. You were so well liked around here, Bucky found himself wondering if he wasn’t the only one who felt like you could tell him to do just about anything and he’d oblige without question.

“You want some?” you asked, holding up an empty cup, but Bucky shook his head. He was already starting to get warm and adding coffee to the mix wouldn’t help things. 

You didn’t seem to mind as you shrugged off your jacket and draped it by the door. The orange sweater he’d caught a glimpse of under your jacket turned out to be a cardigan. It flowed long down by your thighs, draped over a simple, white tank top and black jeans. Gold jewelry sat over your collarbone and you had a sudden glow about you, like that hour just before sunset.

_Golden hour,_ he realized. That’s what you reminded him of. 

“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” you asked, fanning yourself as you set the coffee on the table. “It’s not just me?”

_It’s definitely you,_ Bucky thought. He’d never met anyone who carried such a presence as to melt the icy cold shards planted defensively around his chest. You were the epitome of warmth and kindness and the sweetest damn thing he’d ever seen… but a trail of sweat lined his hairline and he could feel the heat trapped under his jacket. 

“Not you,” Bucky confirmed, brushing at his brow. “It’s hot.”

“Here,” you stood up, holding out a hand to him, “I can take your jacket for you.”

Bucky froze, jaw clenched. He became painfully aware of the empty sleeve on his left side. He wasn’t a complete fool. He knew you must have noticed by now, but taking the jacket off made it obvious that a piece of him was missing, the stub at his shoulder the only thing left in place of an arm he could still feel most days. 

“I’m, uh, I’m okay,” he stuttered out, his eyes falling to the ground, hoping you didn’t notice the flush in his cheeks. He could feel your eyes on him and he was almost certain that if he dared to look up at you, you’d be fixated on his empty sleeve. 

Shame started to burn hot in his chest when suddenly he felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck. When he looked in search of you, he found you setting up a fan at the edge of the room, angling it just enough so that it was sure to reach him on every rotation. 

He swallowed as he watched you. You didn’t ask questions or push him to take the jacket off despite being clearly too warm to keep it on. Instead, you offered him a short smile as you sat back on the couch beside him, a little closer this time. 

“Any better?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s really nice. Thanks.”

You smiled for him and he wondered if he could stay inside that moment forever. 

***

Bucky selected _The Yellow Wallpaper_ by Charlotte Gilman from the stack of books on the table. It surprised you as his hand ghosted over the cover before flipping it over in his palm, a curious look on his features. It was one of your favorites, one not many would choose to pick up in fear of the publishing date in the late 1800s, but it was a short story, one he could finish within the span of the meeting today. 

As he stared down at the unusual yellow pattern on the cover, a frown pushed at his lips as he started to see the strange images hidden under the surface. You found yourself struggling to tear your gaze away from him. With such a reaction to the cover, you couldn’t wait for the end of the meeting just to hear what he thought of the story. 

Soon, the usuals started filtering into the room and you noticed that Bucky had barely said a word as the low hum of small talk and chatter filled the empty space. He kept to himself, perched on the very edge of the couch cushion like he might run at any second as you talked with one of the oldest VA members by the door. 

Upon sensing his discomfort, you quickly made your way back to the couch and you were surprised when you felt the cushion dip a little as he leaned in your direction as if he was using you as anchor; something familiar amongst an unknown. You tried to suppress a smile when he looked at you, but you really liked the idea of being something familiar to him. 

“I’m glad you decided to stay,” you told him quietly, nudging his side playfully with your shoulder. It drew a soft laugh from under his breath and he nodded, gripping tight to the book. 

“Yeah, me too.” He sank back into the couch and relaxed the tension in his body. 

Six on the dot. You turned to the group. 

Tony Stark sat in his usual throne, legs draped over the arm rest, sitting sprawled out over the single chair. Heir to Stark Industries, he’d enlisted himself in rebellion against his own father. He’d ended up in the Air Force for three tours and prided himself on the tattoo on his chest he’d gotten drunkenly off base in his early twenties. 

Natasha Romanoff found her place sitting cross legged on the floor, leaning up against the seat of Tony’s chair. She was a sort of a mystery to you, never spoke a word about her position within the military and how long she served, but she was exceptionally perceptive. Part of you wondered if she was some sort of super spy. Despite becoming a close friend, there was still so little you knew about her history. She rested a pillow in her lap.

Then, there was Scott Lang. He’d found himself in some trouble after his discharge, but he was turning his life around. He had a little girl to stick around for and he was trying desperately to find a job. You suspected his fascination with the _Twilight_ books stemmed more from an unbreakable bond with his daughter than anything else. He took his place on the bean bag chair. 

Clint Barton sat on the table outside the circle. He was a sharp shooter in his time and found more comfort in the distance. He kept to himself and had an exceptionally entertaining habit of making quick remarks under his breath few were fortunate to hear. You were determined to hand him a book with a plot twist not even he could see coming. You resided to put _Defending Jacob_ by William Landay on hold. 

A few others filled out the circle; familiar faces of men and women most would look past on the streets. Dark circles under their eyes, a hardened look about them. Some with tattoos and long beards, other’s draped in leather. Some, you could see the ghost of their former selves in their eyes, but they all seemed to lighten as they sat around the circle. 

A moment of peace. It’s all you could offer and they took it gladly. 

“Hey everyone. We’ve got a newbie in today.” You gestured to Bucky and he slowly lifted his hand in an awkward wave. “This is Bucky. Bucky, this is the group. Play nice.”

“What’s your rank, soldier?” Tony quipped from his chair; legs kicked out over the side. He never had much of a filter, or a sense of restraint. You shot him a glare he didn’t seem to notice, or rather he didn’t care. 

“Sergeant,” Bucky clarified, though you could hear the strain in his voice. He said it as though it burned him, like the very act of the title was painful just to speak. 

“Where’d you serve?”

“Tony, we’re _not_ grilling the new kid today,” you warned, but Bucky cleared his throat.

“Afghanistan mostly.” He curled his hand into a fist, pinching at the pages of _The Yellow Wallpaper_ in his grip. A hardness had swept over most of his features, almost in a protective layer, and you wanted to whack Tony upside the head for stealing the soft undertones in his expression. 

“And the rest?”

Bucky paused, releasing his fist. “Classified.” 

Tony pursed his lips, staring Bucky down over the top lens of his thick rimmed glasses. A testament of wills. A challenge. Then, he nodded, satisfied. 

“Great,” you groaned, rolling your eyes playfully. “Now that Tony here has finished interrogating our newest member, we can get started.”

“Hey, consider it my welcome to the group!” Tony hands thrown defensively in the air. Scott nodded from his couch, remembering his own initiation the day Tony demanded to know the extent of his robbery charges following his discharge. 

You shook your head, smiling spreading back to your lips and you were thankful to find that Bucky had sat back into the couch, relaxing as the attention moved back to you. 

“I think we’ll just spend today reading,” you said. “I’ll put on the playlist Tony recommended – and _don’t worry,_ I did browse through to make sure he didn’t slip any rock anthems in again. We don’t need to give Dr. Selvig down the hall another heart attack when Back in Black starts blaring directly after Yiruma.”

The room laughed and you were purposeful in glancing over at Bucky to see if a smile caught on his lips. It was small, a little uncomfortable as his eyes flickered around the room at the other group members, but he seemed to soften as he landed on you again. You nodded at him. 

“Alright kids, hush up now.” You pressed play and the gentle strokes of a piano began to fill the room. “I’ll wake you in an hour.”

You waited until everyone settled in and opened their books. One of the older gentlemen in the back with a long and burly white beard and a leather vest draped over his shoulders set the open novel on his chest and promptly closed his eyes for his weekly nap. You smiled to yourself as you watched the heavy rise and fall of his chest – the man deserved one decent hour of rest a week, anyway. 

By the time you made your way back to the couch, you noticed Bucky had tensed up again. He was staring down at the book, harsh breaths pressing through his nose as he tried to keep the book propped open with on hand, losing his place as he tried to turn the page. His jaw was clenched so tight you wondered if he’d bite it clean off. 

He didn’t dare ask for help or so much as look in your direction, but it was a determination you’d come to expect from the people you met in these halls. It didn’t mean you couldn’t offer it anyway. 

You quietly opened a drawer at the edge of the room, pushing aside knick knacks and old ketchup packets until you came across a small wooden clip. One of the older members had used it when he was going through extensive PT for his hand and couldn’t pinch his fingers enough to grip the thin slip of the page. You pulled it from the drawer and quickly skirted your way back to the couch beside Bucky.

“Here,” you offered, extending the clip to him as the book fell closed on his lap for the fourth time. He looked up at you, confused. You wondered if he realized how cute he looked when his brows pinched together like that; made him look about ten years younger and wiped the evidence of the war clean off his face. 

You smiled at him. “It holds the pages down for you. Look.”

Gently pulling the book from his lip, you opened to the first page and set the clip at the bottom of the binding. When you released it, the pages stayed open, giving him free range of motion to turn the page without losing his place. 

He blinked a few times as he stared down at the book. It was clear he’d never considered a tool like this and you wondered how many times he had sat down with the intention of reading only to find he couldn’t even turn past the first page. He might have been able to figure out the skill in it if he’d had the patience, but you imagined his own frustration got in the way of that. He seemed to have little patience for himself, as soldiers returning home often did. 

There was a brief moment when the tips of his fingers brushed over yours as you pulled away. His hands were warm, almost feverish in comparison to the chill in your own. A blush warmed his cheeks and his eyes quickly darted down to the pages. Your stomach was in pleasant knots. 

“Thanks,” he replied quietly, a soft semblance of a smile rising sweetly at the edges of his lips. 

You nodded, settling in on the couch beside him and pulling your own book up into your lap. You listened to the gentle strokes of the piano carrying softly through the room until a page turned on your left and then, you let yourself sink into the bindings of the book perched upon your lap. 

***

“So! What did you think?!”

It was the first thing you said as the final group member exited the room. Barely even a footstep out the door and you were already anxiously awaiting his reaction. Bucky was busy pushing the couch back into its original position and he glanced back at you to see you biting nervously on your lip, hands wringing out in front of you. You were swaying onto your tip toes like a kid hyped up on sugar. It was the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen. 

“It was… a little creepy at the end?” Bucky chuckled, glancing down at _The Yellow Wallpaper_ as it sat on the coffee table. “The woman went completely mad.”

You nodded vigorously, the smile on your face beaming and he had to watch himself to keep from mirroring your excitement. 

“It’s a critique on how women’s mental health was perceived in the nineteenth century!” you explained with that giddy look on your face, reaching down for the book and flipping the pages through your fingers, the soft brush of wrinkled paper touching over each thumbprint. “Women were believed to be weak minded and frail, unable to handle more than two hours of mental stimulation. The woman in the story was prescribed _‘rest’_ by her physician to treat her depression, essentially restricting her to little more than staring at the walls.” 

You rolled your eyes, groaning dramatically, and drawing a smile to Bucky’s face that ached into his cheeks. “Slowly, it drove her to seek stimulation in impossible places, like the image of a woman she saw in the wallpaper! By the end of the story, that’s who she became. Wild, right?”

You shook your head, seemingly lost in astonishment. There was a slight crinkle in your nose when you smiled that wide, Bucky realized, like even the features on your face couldn’t hope to contain the joy bursting from your smile. Radiated like the fucking sun. Bucky was helpless in his stance, frozen, as he listened to you. 

“You know the author once said, ‘it’s not intended to drive people crazy, but to _save_ people from being driven crazy,’” you continued, setting the book down with such a gentle touch, almost as if it were a living, breathing thing. You handled it with such care and Bucky began to wonder if you’d ever touch him like that – if he was worth such tenderness. 

The thought startled him and he quickly swallowed it back. Jaw clenched, right hand pressed to a fist in the pocket of his jacket. Stone cold expression. And yet – you were still talking about that book, all starry eyed and adorable, and a smile managed to crack through his lips. It was his new favorite book, he decided. Whatever could make you smile like that was his favorite. He’d sit there and read the fucking phone book if you asked him to. 

“She wrote it in retaliation of her own experience of a physician disregarding her depression. It’s actually quite remarkable when you think about it. It’s one of the earliest American Feminist works of it’s– ” You froze suddenly, hand clamping over your mouth. You winced at him, slowly pealing your palm away. “Oh God, I’m rambling. I tend to get a little excited about these things… You must be so bored right now.”

Bucky couldn’t help the smile as it rose in his cheeks. He liked seeing you so flustered, caught up in a passion he so rarely saw these days. He didn’t know the last time he cared about anything as much as you cared for books. He could have easily listened to you talk like that for hours without interruption. 

“No, no, not bored at all,” he reassured you and you visibly relaxed, relief sweeping through your shoulders. You started to fold up the chairs when Bucky cleared his throat, drawing your attention back. “I, uh, I did like the story, though. Has a lot of relevance today. I see why you like it.”

If he thought you were going to burst before, he should have waited to see how you were looking at him now. Chewing on the inside of your cheek in hopes of suppressing it, though it clearly did little use. You planted your hands on your hips. 

“Watch what you say, Barnes. I’ll talk your ear off.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m already down an arm, what’s an ear, too?”

The second the words left his lips, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head; drenching his clothes, goosebumps on his ice, sinking into his veins and freezing him to stone. He woken up from a pleasant dream by the harsh ringing of an alarm. He’d been pushed off a cliff, stomach churning in the freefall. 

You knew. _Obviously,_ you knew. 

You weren’t blind and he was certain you could tell there was a startling absence where his left arm should be, even with the poorly camouflaged sleeve hanging off his side. It wasn’t fooling strangers on the street and it certainly didn’t fool you either, even if it gave him an ounce of peace, like maybe he could pretend he was whole again.

But you’d brought him that book clip for a reason. 

You knew. 

At yet, this was the first time he mentioned it aloud. Actually _said the words._ Drew _attention_ to the fact that he was a broken mess of who he used to be and now he was waiting for you to flinch, for the familiar shades of pity and embarrassment to cloud over your starry eyes, but he waited and waited and – it never came. 

Instead, you started to laugh. 

It filled the room and washed away whatever panic was surging inside of him within a matter of seconds. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard and he wished you didn’t shield your hand over your lips in an effort to contain it because – _God_ – he could have spent his whole life sitting in that moment. Tears in your eyes, a smile on your face, looking at him like he was the man he was before the war, like he was something worth looking at. 

“You’re funny, James Barnes,” you said after you caught your breath again, a whisper of a laugh still lingering in your voice. You brushed the tears from your eyes. 

Bucky’s chest felt instantly lighter. His right hand was swinging down at his side and he brought it up to his hair to brush it from his face. 

“I could use a new book for next week,” he started, a little surprised at himself, and judging by the look in your eyes, it surprised you too. But you were smiling at him and it gave him the courage to continue. “Thought maybe you could help me find something?”

“Really?” you asked, practically glowing. “You’ll come back next week?”

He’d do anything if you kept looking at him like that. 

“Yeah,” was all he said, but you looked as though he told you he’d just told you he won the lottery. Maybe he had. 

“Well then, I’d be happy to! Just, um, hold on a second,” you scrambled around the room, looking for a pen and paper. You clicked a pen a few times before doodling in the corner to get the ink moving. When you were finished, you handed it to him. “These are my hours at the library. Come by anytime, okay? If I’m not up front, ask Mrs. Jefferson to page me. She’ll know who you are.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, staring down at the scribbled numbers. _Did you talk about him at work?_ Butterflies swarmed in his stomach at the thought. He wondered what kinds of things you would say about him. 

“Walk me out?” you asked, grabbing your coat from the rack and gesturing to the door. Bucky looked up, not even realizing the room was already set back in its original formation, the empty box of donuts discarded. 

He nodded, following you to the door. 

“You know, I’m really happy you decided to come today,” you said as you passed into the hallway. Bucky kept an even pace at your side and tried not to let the butterflies in his stomach escape to where you could see. 

“Almost didn’t,” he admitted with a tired chuckle. 

“Figured by the staring contest you were having with the building before the coffee incident.”

Bucky winced, but you were smiling as he looked over at you and he felt the tension slip from his muscles instantly. “I _am_ sorry about that…”

“Maybe you can just owe me a coffee,” you suggested casually, as if the prospect of spending time together, just the two of you didn’t make the butterflies crawl a little further up into his chest. “A real one. Not the shitty stuff we serve at the VA.”

Bucky swallowed, pushing the creatures back into his stomach. His throat was dry. “I can do that.” 

He pictured sitting across from you at a café, watching your hands curl around the outside of a mug, the steam of it brushing on your nose. Glistening in the reflection of the sunlight peaking through the windows, draped in the glow of the sunset. He’d buy you a thousand coffees. 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you soon then?”

Bucky looked around and realized suddenly that he was standing outside. The cold breeze had turned into a frigid autumn chill with the sun nearly set behind the skyline. Peaks of orange remained at the horizon, mimicking the colors in your sweater. When he looked down, he could still see the stain of coffee on the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, determined to push past whatever doubt etched into his way. It faded in an instant as he saw your lips curve up high into your cheeks. “I’ll see you soon.”


	4. Four

"You're staring at the doors again, sweetie.”

Chin resting on your hands, arms folded out on the countertop of the library’s front desk, you tore your eyes away from the entrance to find Mrs. Jefferson peering over at you from over the bridge of her glasses. She smirked as she returned to her book, knowing she’d caught you in the act. 

“Have patience,” she said simply.

“Book club is tomorrow and—” you sighed, a heaviness returning to your body as you slumped back against the counter, stare drifting back to the doors at the entrance. The sun was beaming outside, reflecting in beautiful rays as it illuminated the walkway and touched over old oak and the colorful bindings of novels. 

You frowned. “I really thought he was going to come.”

“This James Barnes… he’s a soldier, yes? Like my boy?” 

You nodded, disappointment burning like a lump in your throat, though you swallowed it back. “A Sergeant. Sam said he came home a little under a year ago.” 

“Then he’ll come,” Mrs. Jefferson pressed confidently, sliding her glasses up her nose, the chain of purple beads clicking against the gem stones on her sweater. “Boys like that don’t break their word. Even if he is a bit of a hesitant one.”

You knew what she meant by that. Hesitant. 

No one liked to talk about the dangers of a soldier post-war. It was uncomfortable; the idea that they could still be fighting a battle long beyond the absence of a weapon in their hands and the threat of present danger. Heroes weren’t supposed to have chinks in their armor. They weren’t supposed to crumble and break under the weight of what happened beyond borders and the guilt they carried. 

They were supposed to be _strong_ ; a symbol of a great country and a willing tribute to place upon a pedestal. It was unacceptable to be a burden, unacceptable to do anything other than seamlessly integrate back into a society that they never really knew to begin with. 

It was all a farce; a rigged game set to line the pockets of the rich and exploit everyone else in its path – sent off to fight for a cause no one really understood or believed in. It left behind good men and women to the rubble; Bucky Barnes among them. 

Sam hadn’t told you much about Bucky before you met him, but you knew enough to tell that it was a struggle to get him to leave the apartment. He was isolated and quiet and hardly recognizable from the man you’d seen in photos. Only, it wasn’t the lack of his left arm that drew your attention when you first saw him, but the lingering sadness in his eyes. 

Sam had a picture hanging in the office that often pulled you in. Bucky stood on his left side, smiling so wide it left lines on his face. He was bright, light as a feather, only weighed down by Steve’s arm slung around his shoulders. You wondered if the man in the photo would have flirted shamelessly with you, if he’d have corny pickup lines or offer to take you dancing. He looked like the sort of man who had girls chasing his tail, a line of heartbreak in his wake. He was _beautiful._

It was strange to see him like that, comparing him to the man he was today. Now, it was like a cloud lingered over his head, draining the color from his skin and chipping away at his soul until it dimmed and crumbled and faded away. 

But you’d seen glimpses of the man in the photo. He was _still_ beautiful; a little hurt and dragging his feet, but _beautiful_. His smile wasn’t quite as wide and the cloud was still present, but there was a peak of sunshine peering through. A single ray puncturing over stormy skies, but it was something. He’d laughed and teased and it was more than Sam had known him to do in months. You were determined to see the sun touch his skin again. If only he’d let you guide him there. 

“I’m going to go restock on the second level,” you conceded, pushing yourself up from the counter and sauntering over to the cart lined heavy with books. 

“Alright sweetie. I’ll be sure to page you when your Sergeant shows up.”

You felt a heat burning in your face at the very idea of ‘ _your_ Sergeant’. Mrs. Jefferson chuckled to herself, eyes still down on her book. She waved you off, not giving you a chance to object, even if you _could_ string together a coherent sentence. 

***

Bucky couldn’t get out of bed. 

He’d been in this predicament hundreds of times before; staring up at the ceiling, wasting the days away as the curtains blocked the light and shielded him from the reminder of another sun daring to rise beyond his window. His energy would be drained and his willingness to so much as brush his teeth was obsolete. He’d known what it felt like to not be able to get out of bed. 

This was different. 

He had somewhere to be. He actually _wanted_ to get up. He _really_ fucking wanted to.

But the pain in his arm had flared to one of the worst episodes he’d had in months and it rendered him useless; the arm that was both there and not there. He could feel his left hand curl to a fist, could feel the itch on his palm, but when he tried to scratch it, he was only met with thin air, his right hand sinking to the mattress in search of the sensation that didn’t exist. 

It was infuriating. 

The nerve endings in his shoulder were going haywire. It felt like his arm was being ripped from his body and it took nearly all the energy he had not to let it consume him. He’d even gone as far to bite off a piece of his cheek in an effort to suppress the lump in his throat. 

Sam would have frowned at that, spewed him some bullshit about how crying can be therapeutic and Steve would nod his head annoyingly in agreement, but Bucky was tougher than that. He _had_ to be tougher than that. If he allowed himself to unlatch that gate, it would consume him whole. He’d drown. 

Hinges squeaked at the front entrance as the door swung open and a pair of heavy footsteps came rushing into the apartment. 

“I’m coming, buddy! Hold on!” Sam called, the plastic swish of the grocery bag handing off his arms dropping to the floor. Bucky tried to concentrate on the sound of running water, the bottle of pills shaking in the small orange bottle, and not on the pain threatening to tear him in half. 

The door to his bedroom flung open and Sam rushed in with a glass of water and his fist closed around two red capsules. He paused in the frame, a frown pushing down at his mouth, and Bucky could only imagine what he looked like; disheveled, sweating, laying in day old clothes and muddled sheets. His right hand was shaking. 

“Alright, help me out, Barnes,” Sam said, setting the glass down on the bedside table. He placed a steady hand on Bucky’s back to help push himself upright. Bucky swung his legs off the side of the bed, finding his balance before Sam placed the pills in his hand. 

Bucky threw them back into his mouth, holding his hand out for the glass of water that would come next. It landed in his grip and he gulped down the medication. There was no instant relief with pain like this, but the knowledge it would soon wear off to something manageable was enough. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled out, voice tense as he struggled to find it. 

“Insurance companies are assholes,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head, though he patted Bucky on the knee. “Cutting off coverage for a fucking vetwith no warning like that? Can’t believe you’ve been without this stuff for almost a week. It’s messed up.” 

Bucky had come to expect it. He knew something had to go wrong eventually with how things were starting to turn around. He’d actually been looking forward to seeing you at the library and almost went that next day if it wasn’t for the sudden attack on his own body. He’d tried to deal with it on his own, thinking he might sleep it off, but then it became unbearable. Insurance wouldn’t budge and he didn’t have the energy to argue on the phone with them all day. Thankfully, Sam did. 

Except now it was a day before the next book club meeting and Bucky didn’t know how he was supposed to face you. Part of him wondered if you’d be disappointed, if maybe you’d steal a glance over the doors and hope that it was him walking through, only to be let down as each day passed by. The other half wondered if you’d care at all. 

But he’d seen the way you’d smiled at him, how you’d lit up at the idea of him stopping by. 

You’d care. 

He wasn’t sure if that hurt worse, seeing as he never showed up. 

“You could still go.”

Bucky sighed at Sam’s suggestion. He wasn’t teasing him, wasn’t wearing that shit-eating grin. He was being serious. It was the kind of look that reminded Bucky that under it all, Sam was one of his closest friends, one of the few that stuck around when everything went to shit.

“She’ll want to see you,” Sam continued, nudging Bucky’s side with a soft smile, but Bucky shook his head, unconvinced.

“What am I supposed to say to her, Sam?” Bucky groaned, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “’Sorry I stood you up, but I felt like my hand was being sawed off on an arm I don’t even fucking have? _’_ ”

“Why not?” Sam shrugged, earning a glare in response he let roll off his shoulders with ease. “She’d understand, Buck. She knows what comes with the territory here. She’s a lot more familiar with this stuff than you think.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, a pang of jealousy burning hot in his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe you should ask her why she got involved with the VA in the first place.”

Bucky pressed his lips to a thin line, a silence coming over them. That was an immensely personal question; one akin to someone asking him how he’d lost his arm. He wasn’t sure that was an answer you’d be willing to share. 

Sam exhaled a heavy breath, patting Bucky three times on the knee before he stood up. “Let the meds kick in, but promise you’ll try to go, alright?”

Bucky stared up at Sam for a moment before he conceded with a short nod. The pain in his shoulder was starting to lessen, at least. It didn’t feel like his arm was being torn from his body or a knife was plunging into a part of him that didn’t exist anymore. It would likely get back to a place he could deal with within the hour.

“I promise,” Bucky said. “I’ll go.”

***

A brush of warm air filtered in through the vents as Bucky stepped inside the library. It was bigger than he remembered with large stain glass windows on the outer walls, filtering in a colorful sunlight onto the aisles upon aisles of books. At the center, just ahead of the entrance, was a reception desk. Bucky exhaled a tense breath in an attempt to rid himself from the nerves rattling in his veins and made his way to the woman sitting behind the counter. 

She was reading quietly in her seat, a pair of glasses on a beaded chain perched at the very tip of her nose. She didn’t look up in his direction until he stood at the edge of the desk, and only then, she caught glance of him over the top of her glasses before a smile rose on her lips. 

“Can I help you, young man?” 

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to meet someone. She, uh, works here. Y/n.”

The woman nodded. She wore the kind of smile on her face Bucky was familiar with. He’d seen it in Sam about a dozen times in the last week; the kind of smile that said _‘I was right.’_

“You must be Sergeant Barnes,” she said as she picked up the radio from the desk. 

Bucky nodded quickly, glancing over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he felt jittery. He tried not to let the fact that you’d clearly talked to this woman about him throw him completely off his game. If he even had game to begin with… 

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky replied with an even tone. She smirked. 

“Y/n,” she called into the radio, “you have a guest at the front desk.”

The woman held up a finger to him though it trembled with age, signaling for him to wait a moment. Bucky nodded, tucking his hand into his pocket as he silently made his way over to the series of chairs lined along the wall. 

He gripped his fist tight inside his pocket, trying to ignore the pulsing in his shoulder. It had lessened considerably since Sam brought him his meds, but it hadn’t gone away completely. Showering had taken longer than usual and it took him nearly four minutes just to pull a shirt over his head. His army jacket hung over his shoulders, wrapped in a protective layer, loose sleeve at his side. 

“If you’re pulling my chain, Mrs. Jefferson…” 

Bucky perked up at the sound of your voice. You were crossing the main entrance from the staircase, half jogging to the counter where the woman, Mrs. Jefferson, was grinning to herself from behind her book. 

You draped over the counter, toes barely keeping hold on the tile floors as you attempted to reach for her book, but she snatched it from your grasp just in time. You huffed, sinking back down the floor. 

“It’s not funny!” you whined and Bucky almost felt a little guilty for not making his presence known yet, but you were just so cute the way you slumped your shoulders and glanced back at the entrance. 

Mrs. Jefferson pointed over to where Bucky had slowly begun to make his way towards you, but you folded your arms over your chest. Bucky cleared his throat when he stood a few paces off your shoulder, but you didn’t seem to hear him. 

Mrs. Jefferson caught Bucky’s eye before she turned her attention back to you. “Sweetie, he’s—”

“He’s not coming, okay?” you groaned and Bucky felt a stone drop into his stomach. “I—I thought he would but… I was wrong.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak but suddenly his throat was dry. Mrs. Jefferson’s smile started to fade. Clearly, Bucky wasn’t the only one who heard the disappointment in your voice, the sliver of heartbreak, too. He tried to speak, to call your name, _to say something_ , but he was marbled stone. 

“I’m going back to work.”

There wasn’t time to pull his words together before you slammed head first into Bucky’s chest. He stumbled back a few paces, surprised, and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth. 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t—” You stilled, taking in who was standing in front of you. “Bucky?”

He pressed out a smile, though his ears were burning red. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No! N-no, you’re totally fine! I didn’t—I didn’t think you were—” You blinked a few times before your eyes darted back at Mrs. Jefferson who only smirked from behind her book, adjusting the glasses on the tip of her nose. You turned back to Bucky, brushing out the hem of your skirt and wrapping the thick layer of a lavender colored cardigan tightly around your waist, almost like a blanket. 

You exhaled a nervous breath, a nervous smile lifting into your cheeks. “I’m happy you came.”

“It would have been sooner, I swear,” Bucky replied quickly, watching helplessly as your smile brightened into a laugh. “But, um, my uh—” 

He chewed on the edge of his lip. Was he really going to tell you what kept him held up in his room for days on end? Would it bitter the sweet way you looked at him to know that he was a mess under a poorly constructed surface, tied together with string and scotch tape? But you were looking at him so fondly, he wondered if there was anything he could say that could take that away.

“My arm,” he admitted, waiting for a flash of disgust on your face that never came. You softened a bit, but your eyes never left his. He cleared his throat. “It, um… It was just acting up. I ran out of meds and the pain it—it got bad. The kinda pain that sorta makes me wish I had the arm just so I could saw it off myself.”

Shit. He hadn’t mean to say _that much_ but there was just something about the way you looked at him that made him feel like he couldn’t say a damn wrong thing. You pursed your lips, nodding in as much understanding as you could offer. You gestured to the staircase and Bucky followed you without question. 

“I would have been here last week,” Bucky finished because he needed you to know. He couldn’t stand the idea of you being upset, of that sliver of disappointment in your voice when you’d accepted he wasn’t going to show. He needed you to know he’d tried. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said simply, though he could tell you appreciated it nonetheless. You offered him a smile, one that washed away any feelings of doubt that crept up to the surface. The pain in his shoulder was long forgotten when you looked at him like that. 

“I just wanted you to know.”

_I just wanted you to know I’m trying._

He had something to look forward to now, a reason to get out of his bed and open the curtains and look at the fucking sun for once. He had reason to shower and go outside and shove away all the thoughts of self-doubt and paranoia because there was something incredible waiting for him beyond the door. 

_I just wanted you to know you’re the reason I’m trying._

“Come on,” you grinned, leading him to the staircase. “I have a few books in mind you might like.” 

Your hand extended in his direction, but you caught yourself when you realized what you were doing. It was seamless enough that you easily played it off as you tugged your sweater tight around your body, but he noticed. It was an intimate gesture, a closeness he hadn’t known in years. 

He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to crave something like that.

***

It didn’t take long for Bucky to settle on _The Martian_ by Andy Weir. It was the first book you pulled from the shelves, one amongst a series of alternatives you had ready in the event this one didn’t appeal to him. All it took was a single glance over the back cover, a slight incline in his brow, and he was sold.

“I trust you,” was all Bucky had said; so simply, as if it didn’t take the breath straight from your chest. 

Bucky didn’t have a library card you realized as you brought him back to the front desk. He’d sheepishly asked to check it out on your account, but you were determined to see more of him and you hoped that by getting him his own card, he might be more inclined to come back. Not that you explained it that way per say, but he didn’t object at least.

It had taken a lot less time than either of you anticipated and you found yourself following him to the exit, both of you dragging your feet.

“So, um…” he started, a nervous chuckle in his voice. “That was easy.”

“Yeah,” you scratched at the back of your neck, glancing to the clock hanging high on the eastern wall. “I hope you like it after all this trust you’re putting in my judgement.”

“I’m sure I will.”

A short silence swept over. Neither of you moving to leave. A couple swerved around you in an effort to get to the doors. The silence wasn’t awkward, but there was a nervous energy in it, like you were both waiting for the other to make the first move. Only, you both did it at once. 

“Would you want to—”

“I’m off at four—”

You bit down on your lips, suppressing a laugh. You gestured for him to go first. His looked so sweet with the pink in his cheeks. A man who had been once rendered as a weapon and he wore a blush in his cheeks. Your stomach held butterflies in its cage. 

“There’s a coffeeshop nearby,” he continued nervously. “I was thinking I could replace that coffee of yours I spilled last week…”

Your cheeks were starting to ache from how wide you were smiling. “Give me five minutes? I just need to wrap things up with Mrs. Jefferson and then I’m yours.”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a second, a flash of something unreadable on his face. He shook it off quickly and nodded, telling you he’d wait by the chairs along the wall until you were ready. It wasn’t until you were halfway to the desk that you’d realized what you’d said. 

_I’m yours._

A harmless saying; one people used every day in passing. Still, you felt that same surge of energy at the thought. From the twists in your stomach and the stammer in your heart, you knew that if he’d asked, it would be true. 

*******

Bucky watched as you scurried back to the main desk, a few quick glances back over your shoulder in his direction like you were making sure he was still there. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it ached in your cheeks. He’d never known anyone to smile as much as you did, like you had this limitless supply of joy eager to be tapped into. He couldn’t help but feel a twist in his stomach, knowing he had been able to syphon some of that joy and bring it to the surface. It was _him_ you were smiling at. It felt like a dream.

He glanced down at the book nestled into the sleeve of his bag; a stunning ombre in shades of orange to red to black, a lone astronaut in the center – like he was floating adrift. You’d told him it was a story of survival, of the intricacies of humanity and human connection. It was funny at times and filled with science beyond your pay grade, but it was mesmerizing. 

There was an unspoken hope he could read in your eyes that he might connect to the main character, Mark Watney in his search for connection, in his desperate hope to free himself from the isolation, in his resilience. You’d said Mark was an exceptional character, one with courage and determination to be admired. 

Bucky wasn’t sure he could stand up to the likes of Mark Watney, but he would certainly try. 

The glimmer in your eye as you spoke about the book, almost as if it were an old friend, was enough to convince him. For the first time in years, he felt the urge to read when he got home, just so he could see the look on your face in book club when you realized he’d already started it. He wanted to make you proud, wanted to see more of your smile. It was his new drive. 

A few minutes later, you came jogging back up to him. Your purse hung over your shoulders, a few new books of your own tucked under your arm. You’d done more than finish your shift at the desk though, he realized, because his eyes flickered to a reflective shine on your lips, one that hadn’t been there before. You’d put on lip gloss.

His heart flipped. 

“Ready?” you asked, gesturing to the doors. All bright eyes and sunshine as you looked at him. 

“There’s a café called Luciana’s not too far from here. I’ve heard good things about it. Might be quiet,” Bucky offered and a flash of something unreadable crossed your features. “Do you know it?”

“I go there every Sunday before book club! It’s my favorite,” you replied, nearly skipping in your steps. “Replacing my coffee _and_ getting it right down to the same shop? I’m impressed, Bucky.”

He chuckled, hanging his head as he followed you down the descending staircase and into the heavy flow of pedestrian traffic. He’d forgotten how busy the sidewalks could get at rush hour and the smile quickly drained from his face, though he wouldn’t let you see. 

Bucky tried to focus on you as the strangers circled in around him, how you were laughing at the coincidence of it all, starting on a tangent of your favorite donuts at the shop. Your voice was like a beacon and he did his best use it as a guide. 

But he could feel the quicken pace of his heart inside his chest, how it thumped through his ribs and pulsed into his head the closer strangers got to him. He swerved out of the way of a tourist who was too busy looking down at his phone to notice Bucky in his path. He kept his head down, hand clenched tightly in his jacket pocket, eyes staring at the concrete. 

Teenagers were whispering behind him, snickering under their breath, and Bucky could hear the harsh _‘shhh’_ of a father at wit’s end. His lungs felt tight, certain that the boys were mocking the loose sleeve hanging down by his side. He could have taken it if here were on his own. His ears would flush red and a wash of shame and embarrassment would flood his senses, but he could have taken it. 

Not with you by his side. Not when you could be privy to the harsh stares and the cruel voices, the validation to a fear he’d known to be true long before he met you – that he was a broken mess of who he used to be and he would never find that sense of normalcy again. He was kidding himself into thinking that you could ever want someone like—

“Bucky?”

When he looked up at you, your smile had fallen away, replaced with concern. It must not have been the first time you called his name. He didn’t know what to say. He felt small, like a child, embarrassed that even on a good day the influx of people still rendered him to a state of panic. 

“Come on,” you said quietly, glancing around to an alley off your shoulder. “Let’s take the scenic route.” 

He followed gratefully, staring at your shoulder blades as you led him away from the busy hustle of the crowd and along empty side streets and residential neighborhoods. It would take longer this way, but you didn’t seem to mind. You were too busy admiring the architecture of the brownstones and the beautiful array of plants and flowers hanging along the windows. In the open space, you skipped a few paces ahead, arms out wide and twirled around, simply because you could. You laughed and it echoed up along the buildings. 

Bucky could have handed you his heart right then. He could have pulled it straight from his chest and set it into your palms. He wondered if you would handle it with the tender sort of care he hoped you would. His heart was fraying and damaged, after all. It required a gentle touch. 

You fell back in line with him easily and you checked to make sure the next block wasn’t too busy before you led him down another side street. He tried to ignore the voices telling him he was a burden, that his baggage was dragging heavy at your feet, but it crept to the surface no matter how many times you smiled at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled out, willing his voice to be stronger than it felt. “I don’t know why this is such an issue for me. I was fine on the way over.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Bucky,” you said gently, slowing your pace until you came to a stop. 

Bucky dragged his feet, stopping along a bush of pink hydrangeas planted outside a stunning brick townhome. From the corner of his eye, he watched as your hand reached out to him instinctively, almost in slow motion, and you only paused as you realized what you were doing and pulled back. You cleared your throat.

“I’m not ever someone you have to apologize to about this stuff, okay?” you continued with a kind of sincerity in your voice, Bucky didn’t have a choice but to believe you. The way you looked at him nearly pulled him to pieces. “It comes and goes. Waxes and wanes. There’s no fault. No blame. Just tell me if something’s wrong, so I can help. That’s all I ask.”

Were you speaking from experience? Did you know someone who had been as shattered as he was? Was it the reason Sam wanted him to ask about why you were involved with the VA to begin with? 

It was quiet on the side street; the only sound the distant footsteps from traffic up ahead and the low rumble of car engines in the distance. A bird chirped from a low handing branch above. 

You shoved your hands into your pockets in an effort to keep yourself from reaching for his. He was surprised at the twist in his stomach when he wished you would have tried just one more time. Maybe he could have had some courage to take it. 

“Okay,” Bucky agreed, feeling a weight lift from his chest. When you smiled again it was small— a little heavy— but it touched your eyes. There was a relief in it, maybe an appreciation, too. It swept away some of the anxiety from his veins. 

“Okay.” Your smile widened as you continued to walk down the sidewalk. Bucky found himself feeling a little lighter as he followed behind. 

When the two of you approached the main street again along the block Luciana’s was tucked away in, Bucky didn’t feel as though he was suffocating anymore. He could sense his reflexes picking up, a subtle increase in his heart rate, but he walked a little closer to you, your hip bumping against his every so often and he found that it grounded him. It kept him firm on the surface when he felt like he was floating up into a distant unknown. He wondered if you knew the extent to which you affected him. 

Luciana’s was quiet inside as Bucky jutted out ahead of you to reach for the door. A soft strum of an acoustic guitar and a Spanish speaking singer’s intricate melody hummed over the speakers. He felt a solid breath of air fill his lungs, tasting of coffee beans and fresh pastries. 

“Welcome to—” a voice called from behind the counter before she paused, eyes falling on you. “Y/n!” 

A woman ran out from behind the counter, dressed in a stained apron and a long, bright pink dress, and held her arms out to you. You laughed as she enveloped you to her chest. 

“My darling! It is not Sunday, you know. You’re getting your days mixed up!” she exclaimed, wagging her finger at you. She didn’t even give you time to explain before she turned to Bucky, who suddenly felt a burn of heat on his face. “Ah! You finally brought me one of your boys!”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, turning to you quickly. His stomach dropped. 

“She means at the VA,” you explained, a little embarrassed at her implication as you shuffled your feet, eyes darting at the floor. Bucky raised an eyebrow in realization, eyes flickering back to the woman – who he assumed to be Luciana herself – as she scurried back around the counter. He noticed then that she was wearing slippers on her feet. 

“Come, come!” She called eagerly, waiting with a tapping toe at the register. 

You and Bucky exchanged a glance, a breath of a laugh escaping before you stepped up to the counter. You didn’t hesitate in your order, though you took some extra time in looking over the pastries and donuts after Bucky told you to pick something out for him. You put so much thought into it, it was really quite sweet. He waited until you reached down for your purse to slip his card over the counter to Luciana. 

She wore that same smile he’d seen on Mrs. Jefferson at the library. That smirk. Like they knew something he didn’t. 

You heard the ring of the cash registered and looked up at him, agape. You swatted his arm without thinking twice about it and there was a comfort in that. He laughed, taking his coffee and settling in at a table by the windows as you followed behind. 

As he watched you across the table, your eyes glancing out to the pedestrians as they walked back, nursing the steaming mug of coffee between your hands, that morning suddenly felt like it was a life time ago. 

Had he really been paralyzed with pain, unable to move from his bed, just a few hours earlier? It felt like a century had passed in between. In a rare indulgence, Bucky let himself wonder what it would feel like to spend all his time with you; if maybe time moved so fast it swept him off his feet or if it moved slow enough to allow him to catch every second. 

All he knew was that he wanted more.


	5. Five

For the first time since Bucky was discharged from active duty, he had a routine again. 

The curtains were open before he took a shower in the morning; sunlight streaming in through the windows and casting a gentle glow over the apartment. It touched over books piled high on the coffee table, pillows neatly lined on the sofa, and blankets folded over the arm rest. Steve had nearly done a double take the first time he made his usual beeline to whip open the curtains to expose a dusty and unkempt apartment, only to find Bucky making coffee in the kitchen, freshly showered, and the sun shining high in the sky. 

It had been almost a month since his first attendance at book club and he’d gone through nearly a book a week just to have the excuse to visit you at the library again for another. You’d given him your number after his first trip to the library with a binding promise to text you if he was held up in his apartment in pain again. You’d sworn to bring books straight to him and read them aloud if you had to. 

You had laughed as you said it, like it was only a joke. Bucky had nodded along, but if he were honest, he would have liked that very much. 

He’d arrange for times to meet you at the library at the end of your shift where you’d always have a book waiting for him. There’d be a few sitting on the shelf you’d set aside, but without fail, he always opted for the first one you presented to him. You hadn’t led him wrong so far. 

After, though neither of you directly proposed it, you’d often find yourselves back at Luciana’s. It was like your feet simply carried you there, a silent agreement to spend as much time together as you could, even if you were both too afraid to admit it out loud. 

He came to understand why Sunday was your favorite day of the week. Bucky started to take it upon himself to meet you at the library to walk you to the VA where he fulfilled his word to help move the couches before the usual members arrived. The look of surprise on your face when you bounced down the library steps and caught sight of him leaning on the pillar a few steps away from the busy sidewalk had been enough to convince him to never leave your side again. 

Your smile was one he’d learned to memorize. He conjured it when the strangers bumped into him on the sidewalk threatened to collapse his racing heart entirely and it pushed him further. It was enough to convince him to keep going beyond the safety of his apartment walls and it was worth it every time. Just to see you smile at him like that. 

***

“Have you started it yet?”

Bucky blinked a few times, reminding himself of his surroundings. You stood on his right side in line at Luciana’s behind a couple of tourists who were having a hard time discerning the difference between a cappuccino and an americano. He raised an eyebrow, confused, and you gestured to the book in his bag. 

“Oh, I just flipped through the pages so far,” Bucky said, pulling the book from his bag; thick black cover with a small white illustrated creature staring up at the stars. _Everyone’s a Aliebn When Ur a Aliebn Too_ written by an author that seemed to go by a name as misspelled as the title, Jomny Sun. “It looks like a children’s book?”

You grinned and your shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s somewhere in between. You have to trust me on this one. It may seem young on the surface but it’ll tug at your heart strings. Hold your judgement until you’ve actually read it, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled, nodding. “Hey, I never said I didn’t trust you. Just curious where you’re leading me on this one.”

“ _Be blind,_ Bucky,” you sang, teasing him. “I won’t guide you into a creepy forest or the bottom of the ocean, I promise.”

“Oh good. I was starting to worry.” 

It was strange to feel so light again, but there was something about your presence that allowed him to let go of all the weight he carried. He could set down his baggage at his feet for just a minute to give his back a break, to stretch out his muscles and find relief in the solace. You would have offered to carry some of it yourself if he’d asked— of that he was certain. But it was a heavy load, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for you to see what was inside just yet.

The bell to the café rang behind him and a mother and her young son walked inside. The little boy held the woman’s hand as he scrunched his nose at the smell of the coffee, pouting up at her. A bright red backpack hung off his shoulders, Velcro ties over his tiny sneakers. The soles lit up as he walked. 

“Mommy, I want to go to the playground,” the kid whined and Bucky watched you laugh to yourself from the corner of his eye. 

“We will, sweetness,” the mother replied calmly. She bent down to brush the hair from the boy’s eyes. “Mommy just needs a bit of caffeine before we—”

“Whoa! What happened to that guy’s arm?” the kid gasped, a mixture of shock and amazement in his tiny little voice. 

Bucky tensed up immediately, every muscle in his body turning to stone. When strangers noticed his arm, he was usually met with unwanted stares and hushed whispered, but children were a whole different story. They had no filter, no sense of the unspoken rules garnered by society; they were driven by their own curiosity and something as trivial as politeness did not get in the way of that. 

“Oh, honey,” the mother gripped tight to the boy’s arm, lowing her voice in hopes Bucky hadn’t heard him, “you can’t ask things like that.”

“Why not?” the boy replied innocently. “Where’d it go?”

Bucky could feel your eyes on him, studying for his reaction, but he couldn’t offer one. He was stone, after all. A frown tugged at your lips to see the sudden distress wash over him and he felt an aching puncture of embarrassment deep into his stomach. It only took the mere mention of his arm to wipe him to a blank slate, to throw him back to the battlefield where it was torn from his body. Any unexpected reminder of it usually did. 

You nodded at him, offered a small smile, like you were trying to tell him it would be alright. Then slowly, you turned around and knelt in front of the boy. 

“Hi,” you said sweetly, catching the mother off guard. 

“Do _you_ know what happened to his arm?” the boy asked, must to the dismay of his mother.

“ _Mason!_ Oh God, I am so very sorry,” the mother quickly apologized, flustered as she desperately tried to hush the boy. He pressed his face into his mother’s arm. 

Bucky stole a glance over his shoulder to find you kneeling on the floor beside the boy, smiling at him as he clutched a plush triceratops to his chest. You tilted your head at him, trying to get a better look at the boy. 

“You want to know what happened?” you asked softly. He nodded, arms wrapped tight around his stuffed toy. You glanced up at Bucky and his eyes narrowed on you, heart beating a little faster, stomach twisting, before you turned back to the boy. “He did something _really_ brave.”

 _Fuck_. 

Did you know? 

Did _Sam_ tell you? 

Bucky’s legs started to feel weak. 

“You like superheroes, huh?” you continued, pointing at the image of a man in a red cape flying on the boy’s t-shirt. The boy nodded shyly. “They swoop in and save the day with their super strength or magic powers, right?”

The boy started laughing, he was smiling again, standing free from his mother’s hold. She was staring at you like you were akin to one of the characters on the boy’s shirt. Bucky felt the stones cracking around his body, freeing him from their grip. 

“Is he Super Man?” Mason whispered, glancing up at Bucky with such wonder, it took him by surprise. The boy was so small, no older than four years old. Bucky didn’t know the last time he’d even talked to a kid that young and yet here you were, at the boy’s level, making him laugh and smile and easing the concerns of his mother. 

“No, he’s not,” you laughed for a moment. Then, you softened, gathering the boy’s attention again. “My friend here doesn’t have super powers. So, when he saved someone, he got hurt. But I think that makes him very brave, don’t you?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, grinning so wide Bucky wondered how it was possible your smile could be so infectious. The mother mouthed a soft ‘thank you’ in your direction as the boy quickly changed subjects to the sprinkled donut he was going to eat for snack. She caught Bucky’s eye for a minute and nodded at him, almost in appreciation. He pressed his lips to a thin line. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything back. 

You ordered his usual coffee and one of the freshly baked muffins, then a drink and a pastry for yourself. In Bucky’s distraction with the kid, he hadn’t noticed you pay before he had a chance. He felt like he was in a bit of a trance as you led him back to a table in the far corner of the shop, away from the windows and the customers. 

“You alright?” you asked as you slid into your chair opposite him. 

_“Did Sam tell you?”_ Bucky blurted out before he had a chance to bite his tongue. It was the last thing he wanted you to know about and he had half a mind to storm up to the VA just to rip Sam a new one before he shut himself off in his apartment for a few weeks. 

It was the reason for the reoccurring nightmares that hadn’t let up in the last month, even when he’d started to have more good days than bad. They’d celebrated him for what he’d done, given him a medal, and thanked him for his service. The very thought of it made him want to vomit. 

“Hey, hey, Bucky look at me,” you called gently, your voice at the end of a dark tunnel. He blinked, adjusting to the light. “Sam didn’t say a word about what happened. I had a theory and I made a guess. You’re clearly a good man. It didn’t feel like much of a stretch. That’s all.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, staring down at the muffin as he picked at the paper cup. He heard you sigh, surprised that he couldn’t find a single sliver of impatience in your voice. When he looked up again, you smiled sweetly at him and asked him about Alien – _Aliebn?_ – book; quickly lost in tangent of your favorite pages and moments you were excited for him to read. 

He was grateful for the change in subject, but more than that, it gave him a chance to just admire you. There was nothing strange about watching a woman, studying the intricacies on her face and the passion in her voice, when she was speaking right to him. He nodded along, doing his best to actually take in what you were saying, but he was so easily distracted by the brush of steam touching your nose, the press of your lips into your cheeks, the lines on your forehead, and the way your eyes seemed to light up the entire city block. 

The kid, his arm, and nearly six years of combat were quickly forgotten when he had the chance to watch you like that. You hardly let him get a word on, too caught up in your own excitement for the novels you placed in his hand, but he didn’t mind. He preferred to listen to you anyway. Your voice had a calming presence about it; soothing and gentle, loving and joyous. If it weren’t for the clock hanging on the wall above your head, he might have sat there all night with you.

“We should probably head over,” he pointed out reluctantly, gesturing to the clock as it approached six. 

You frowned, following his gaze to see the time had slipped by quicker than you realized. As you began to clear off the table, throwing the scraps in the garbage and setting the mugs on the counter for Luciana, Bucky began to wonder if maybe you would have sat there all night with him, too. If only he could find the courage to ask.

*******

Bucky removed the clip from the book, closed the back binding, and slumped back into the cushions. The room was still pretty quiet, everyone’s noses still down in their books as the soft strum of Simon & Garfunkel played from the speaker by the coffee table. He glanced over at you as you sat beside him, a little closer than usual, though he didn’t mind. Your hip brushed his every so often when you adjusted position. It was a kind of closeness that left him wanting more. 

You were only halfway through your own book, but you could clearly sense him watching you because you slowly looked up in his direction, a pointed smile on your face. 

“You were right,” he admitted, his voice a hushed whisper in effort not to disturb the other members. “Surprisingly deep considering it’s a children’s book for adults.” 

“Hey maybe we need pictures on our pages, too,” you whispered back, teasing him with a nudged to his right shoulder. He laughed, leaning back comfortably against the couch as Tony’s eyes glared over in his direction from the top of his book. He pressed his lips together to keep quiet.

You snickered into Bucky’s shoulder, lips pressing against the sleeve of his jacket and he had never wanted to remove that layer more in his life; to actually feel the imprint of your mouth instead of just the press of your face, to feel the heat in your breath breathe through the thin layer of his t-shirt. He shivered. 

“Alright kids,” you said aloud, setting your book on the table. “Times up for today.”

“Oh, come on, Y/n! I’ve only got one chapter left!” Clint whined, stretching out dramatically along the table he was laying across. 

“Glad to hear it, Clint,” you smirked, hands planted firm on your hips. “Finish on your own time.”

A couple of _‘ooo’s_ rang out and it reminded Bucky of his days sitting behind a desk in class in grade school and a kid would get called up to the principal’s office. Clint took it in stride though and seemed to bask in it, throwing up a pose in face of the chorus. 

The crowd quickly dispersed after that, though a few of the older members lingered behind to update you on how far they’d gotten in their books. Bucky watched you from a distance as he started to move the couches back into place, mesmerized by the glimmer in your eye as you spoke to them, a soft hand resting on the crook of their arm, nodding along with a smile on your face – always so genuine in every interaction, in every bone in your body. 

Bucky had practically finished arranging the entire room by the time you walked back inside. Your jaw dropped, wide eyes meeting his. 

“You didn’t have to do all that by yourself!” 

Bucky shrugged. “How long were you doing it on your own before I came along? Take the help when it’s offered, Y/n.”

You smiled at that. “Still. I appreciate it.”

“It’s really nothing,” Bucky said simply.

He hadn’t felt a drive like this is years. Not even before his final tour and the destruction that came with it. He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to want to lift even the smallest of burdens for someone else just to see the weight slip from their shoulders, just to see them smile. He found himself wanting to carry everything you had, even if it started with arranging the heavy furniture of the empty VA library. 

You chewed on the edge of your lip as you watched him approach the door, your jacket in his hand. He had wanted to hold it open for you, to let you turn your back and slip your arms through the sleeves, but it just wasn’t something he could do with one hand, and instead, he placed it to hang over your forearm. 

A longing for a world in which you met him before his body had been put through the shredder ached deep into his gut. It started to push a frown onto his lips, but then your voice broke through and he shook it away. 

“Ready?” you asked, gesturing to the door and he nodded, following closely behind. 

There was a sudden nervous energy in the air he didn’t expect, and for once, it wasn’t coming from him. He glanced over at you as you walked in line with him to find you fidgeting with the zipper of your jacket, hands wringing into the fabric, and hair falling out of place and down into your eyes. You exhaled a few tense breaths as Bucky opened the main door for you, following behind as you stepped out onto the side walk. 

The two of you stood there for a minute, neither one making a move to leave. You kept glancing back at the VA, then to your watch, barely able to look in Bucky’s direction and he started to feel that familiar twist of anxiety in his stomach. 

“Hey, are you oka—”

“Do you want to go for a walk?” you blurted out before he could finish, biting down quickly on your lip as if to stop yourself from saying more. 

Bucky froze, confused. He glanced down at his watch. It would be dark soon. “Now?” 

A flash of embarrassment quickly passed over your features and Bucky’s stomach dropped. 

Was it possible that you just wanted to spend more time with him? That maybe you could crave his presence the same way he did yours? 

“N-No, no, you’re right. It’s late. I’m sorry,” you muttered quickly, arms folding protectively over your chest. You kicked at a stone on the sidewalk, watching as it rolled over on its side. “I should, uh, I should head home then. I’ll see you later, Bucky.”

“There’s a park nearby,” Bucky offered before you could turn away. You lifted your head. 

“Yeah?” A cautious smile hung on your lips as you stepped closer to him. 

Bucky nodded, trying to push away the shaking in his hand. “Yeah, come on.”

A couple minutes passed by in silence as you walked along his side. Every so often, your knuckles would brush up against his hand, a nervous laughter between you as you pulled away. It happened so quickly each time, he never had a chance to respond. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure he would have had the courage to twist his fingers into yours, hold your hand tight to his own, feel the warmth of your palm and guide you along the cobblestones to the small space of greenery amongst brick and steel and concrete. 

“I hope you don’t mind me keeping you out late,” you said slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you waited at the intersection to cross the street. 

“Not at all,” Bucky replied sincerely, offering you a small smile in hopes to ease your nervousness. Part of him wished he said more, maybe told you that spending time with you was the best part of his day or that you were the reason he was getting out of bed most mornings, but it was too big of an admission. It could scare you away and that was the last thing he wanted. Before he had a chance to decide, the light turned and you stepped out onto the street. Bucky followed closely behind. 

The entrance to the park was bordered with a dark metal fence, an arch way carrying over the brick walkway decorated with flowers and vines. You crossed underneath, pausing to stare up the twisting of the leaved through the pattern in the arch, a delicate finger reaching out to touch the tip of a petal. You looked back at Bucky with a smile twice as wide on your face and he hung his head, a breath of a laugh in his chest. 

The park was mostly empty for a Sunday evening. The last remaining streams of sunlight lit up the greenery, touching over the flowers and the reflecting into the pond at the center where a family of ducks were waddling along the edge. You seemed to like that, watching how the babies followed the mama along the rim of the water. Bucky turned to his right to find you imitating their walk, chasing after them until they stepped into the water. 

Meanwhile, Bucky found a bench sitting under an old oak tree. Its branches hung draped over the bench enough to provide a shadow from the closing sun. It faced the west side of the park, where the sun was setting just over the tops of the buildings and illuminating the sky in brilliant shades of golden orange and vibrant reds. 

“You want to sit for a bit?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the bench. His feet were a little tired from walking through Brooklyn all day with the library, the VA, and now this. It was more than he usually did these days – not that he minded. He’d happily allow his legs to be a little sore if it meant more time with you. He’d walk through busy streets for miles if it was you he was walking towards. 

You plopped down on the bench on his right, sinking into the old wood. You glanced over at him, hiding behind a strand of hair that had fallen down into your face. 

“Thanks for amusing me.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, chuckling to himself. “You act like I don’t want to be here.”

“I know, I know,” you laughed, swinging your feet off the side of the bench. “It’s just… and I hope this isn’t a strange thing to say but… I just like spending time with you. Wanted a little more of it today, I suppose.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly very dry. His heart stammered a bit inside his chest, butterflies causing chaos in his stomach, but it didn’t make him want to run. He felt no drive to escape, to push those sensations so far out of reach he turned back to the numbed and empty version of himself he’d been occupied by for months before he met you. They were frightening feelings, yes, but they were pleasant ones, ones he welcomed and invited inside. 

“You can have as much of my time as you want,” Bucky said as the words fell off his tongue. No filter, no second guessing. No chance to bite his tongue. You looked up at him with a kind of hope in your eyes that made his cheeks start to hurt from how much he was smiling. 

You settled back in on the bench, gazing up at the sunset as it lowered behind the buildings. Brush strokes of softer tones blended into the fading blues in the sky, giving way to the moon and stars as they emerged beyond the clouds. 

He glanced down at your hand as it rested on the bench by your thigh. There was hardly even a breath of air between his pinky to yours. You were so close; it would only take one instant of courage to bar the space between you. 

_Be brave, Barnes._

Testing the waters, Bucky allowed the very edge of his fingers to brush over your knuckles. Your skin was softer than he’d remembered from that first handshake in the VA nearly a month earlier. He felt your breath hitch like a jolt of electricity had rushed though you, though you didn’t tear your eyes away from the sunset. Your thumb ran a tender line along his hand as you turned your palm up. Bucky swallowed. 

He slipped his hand into yours, curling his fingers to the space between your own, and for a moment he just let himself _feel._

He felt for the slight give in your hand, the twitch in your movements as you settled in against him. He felt the gentle sway of your thumb as it painted a line along his, comforting sweeps like you were reminding him you were there. He felt the chill in your skin – cold hands, like he remembered from before – and the heat of his own. 

Then, your head on his shoulder. Your legs crossed towards him as you leaned in closer and he made no efforts to move. A gesture like that would have thrown him in a tailspin before he met you; to be this close to someone, to _anyone,_ to sit in the vulnerability of allowing someone to know and feel him. 

He looked back up at the sunset. It had nearly dipped below the horizon now; only a few glimpses of color remaining in the sky and the shine of the lamppost just a few feet away. 

You sighed in a contented hum, circling your free hand to rest on the inside of his bicep, hooked around his arm. You held him against you like a teddy bear, just wanting to feel more of him. 

It was a strange sensation, he thought; this new urge to want to give you as much as his body could offer.


	6. Six

“So, you really melted ice man’s heart, huh?” 

You pouted, throwing Sam a warning glare as you turned back to the stack of books on the cart. 

It had only been a few days since the night on the park bench and you had seen Bucky nearly every evening since. Most of the time you’d find him waiting by the chairs at the entrance to the library for you to get off shift, hair tucked under a baseball cap and hand brushing down at the thigh of his jeans, like maybe he was nervous enough to find the evidence in his palms. He’d brighten up as you spotted him, a lightness coming over his features. You’d lead him down the residential side streets, through canopied trees and flowerbeds along the sidewalk, to spend a few hours at Luciana’s sipping decaf and nibbling through pastries. 

The crowds didn’t bother him as much lately it seemed, or maybe he was getting used to the hustle of rush hour after spending so much time avoiding it. Part of you wondered whether your hand slipping into his and the constant pressure of a slight squeeze had anything to do with it. You wondered if it grounded him like an anchor when his body was eager to float off into space.

He was so impossibly sweet with you; hesitant, like Mrs. Jefferson had said the first day he wandered into the library, but still, there was a lingering charm in it. It sat in the way he looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the lines on your faces, in the way he listened to your long rambles on the latest book you were assigning him, how he had no interest in cutting you off, like maybe he could have listened to you talk for an eternity if you’d let him. 

Bucky Barnes was a little rough on his edges, with some fraying seams and broken pieces, but he was still whole – still complete and wonderful and beautiful. He was soft in his undertones, glimpses of a subtle charm and confidence slipping through the cracks in the small moments when he let his guard down. You didn’t know the Bucky before the war that Sam and Steve spoke so fondly of, but you knew the man he was now and well, this Bucky was everything. 

“He seems like he’s doing better,” Sam said, a little softer this time as he leaned his back to the book shelf. His arms folded over his chest, a smile resembling a sort of pride pushing up at his cheeks. “Took me _months_ to convince him to leave the apartment long enough to check out the VA and you’ve got him down here visiting you almost every day. He’s walking through rush hour just to see you, Y/n. That’s huge for him! Hell, his face might break from how much he’s been smiling lately…”

You laughed, hushing Sam as an elderly woman shot a pointed stare in his direction. Sam held his arms up in defense. 

“He seems _happy_ , Y/n,” Sam finished as you set another book onto the shelf. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I get you’re implying that it’s my doing,” you said unconvinced, “but he’s stronger than you give him credit for, Sam. He would have come around on his own. He just needed time. All of you did when you got back. Clearly some more than others. But Bucky… he suffered an immeasurable loss over there. Imagine what that must be like for him to have to readjust to his own body. _Of course,_ he needed time.”

Sam was still smiling at you, nodding along, like maybe you were only proving his point. You believed so strongly in Bucky that it didn’t even cross your mind that maybe it was because of you that he’d started to find himself again. You hadn’t known Bucky when he was holed up in his apartment, shielding himself from the light and drowning in his own anguish. It broke your heart to imagine him sitting alone in a dark, messy apartment, staring at the walls and wishing he were someone else. 

You couldn’t imagine him like that because the man you knew was sweet beyond measure and he made your stomach twist into knots from a simple look across the room. It didn’t seem possible that the light could be drained from the blue of his eyes. 

“I’m not trying to _fix him,_ Sam,” you mumbled under your breath, keeping your eyes trained on the task at hand. “He doesn’t need fixing. I just… I like him and… I like spending time with him. If that means he’s doing better, if he’s starting to look more like the guy you knew, then… that’s good.”

Sam paused, pursing his lips as he studied your face for the subtle reflexes upon your features. You weren’t sure what he was looking for or maybe it was that he was debating whether to argue with you further on the subject, but eventually he resided to concede, letting out a heavy exhale. 

“Just… thank you,” Sam said, relief etched into his voice. “It’s nice having my friend back.”

You looked up at him, a little stunned. “Sam, I haven’t done anything. We haven’t even…um… We _aren’t._..”

He smiled at you, something genuine, something softer than the cheesy grins you were used to from him. It was a glimpse into who Sam was behind the jokes and the comedic breaks in tension; a man who cared so deeply for the people in his life that he’d cross mountains to see them smile again. He’d come to your aid without so much as a second thought when you’d needed him most, when your world was thrown completely upside down, and here he was again, putting everything he had into making his friend feel whole again. 

Sam put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed. “You’ve done more than you realize.”

You stared at him for a moment, a little lost for words. Could just a few extra days spent wandering around the library, sitting across a café table nursing coffee and scones, and curling up on a park bench have that kind of impact? If you let yourself stop to realize how much brighter your days felt when Bucky was in them, maybe you’d understand what Sam meant. 

“Besides,” Sam shrugged as his smile drifted, “it’s nice to see you happy again, too. Moving on.”

You swallowed and it tasted of bile. The book nearly slipped from your hand. 

Sam chewed on the edge of his lip, a hand swiping over the top of his head. “I know it’s been a few years since we lost—”

“ _Please_ — don’t,” you choked out. 

Sam bowed his head, nodding, and you could already feel the swell in your throat. You exhaled a tense breath that struggled to push past your lungs and forced yourself to continue restocking the books, concentrating on the alphabetizing and weathered feel of the covers.

“It’s still hard for me to talk about him, too,” Sam admitted, leaning against the shelf. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a frown pushing on his lips that felt so incredibly unnatural to the man you knew. “But the pain of it doesn’t hurt as much when we have reasons to get up in the morning. Reasons to smile, still. Good things to look forward to.”

You nodded, willing yourself not to cry. It had been so long since you let yourself drift into the memory of the man you’d lost, the name behind the membership card of the loved ones left behind to war heavy in your pocket. 

“All I’m saying is Bucky’s good for you too, kid,” Sam smiled softly nudging you in the shoulder and tickling your sides until a laugh escaped. You clamped a hand down over your mouth as the two of you earned another pointed stare from the elderly woman lurking in the romance section. Sam raised his hands in defense. 

You wiped at your eyes, cheeks burning from grinning. “I could have told you that, you know.” 

“Speak of the devil.” Sam nodded over to the top of the staircase where a man emerged, holding onto the banister; a mop of long brown hair swayed down into his face, a dark green army jacket hung over his shoulders with a sleeve draped down at his left side untouched.

Whatever remained of the lump burning in your throat dissipated, the weight in your pocket feeling a little lighter. A smile grew so wide on your checks you’d nearly forgotten the frown that had ached in the very same muscles just moments earlier. 

“Bucky! What are you doing here?” you laughed as he approached, a little surprised to see him. You nearly wrapped your arms around him before you stopped yourself. You’d only gone as far to hold his hand and you weren’t even sure he’d be comfortable with it given Sam was standing directly on your left.

“Hey,” he replied nervously, pushing a hand through his hair. It looked noticeably softer, a bit of a shine to it, and you wondered if he’d started to care for it again. It was the first time you’d seen him without the baseball cap on. He exchanged a look with Sam before turning back to you. “You said that it got pretty slow on Thursdays and I just wanted to offer you some company but… seems like that’s already covered.”

“Sam can leave!”

Sam pouted dramatically at you as Bucky started to laugh under his breath. It wrinkled up into his eyes and you saw for a moment what Sam had meant; a brightness had returned to the shimmering shades of the open blue skies in his eyes in favor of the muted and darkened ocean waves you’d seen that first day in the VA.

“That hurts, you know,” Sam whined, hand clutching at the fabric on his chest as if he could reach inside and touch his own heart. “We were friends long before this one wandered on scene.”

 _“Bye Sam,”_ you sang, waving him off with a nudging on his back. Hands pressed into his shoulder blades, Sam dug his heels into the multicolored carpet under his feet to keep you from pushing him along. You started to laugh loud enough for the woman who scolded Sam earlier to turn in your direction with a scowl upon her face. 

“Alright, alright,” Sam groaned. He stood up straight, brushing you off. “Have fun, kids. Buck, I’ll see you Thursday for the game, right?”

Bucky nodded; hand tucked into his pocket. “Steve’s on nacho duty and we both know he’ll bring enough for twenty people, so you better.”

Sam grinned, pumping his fist in the air. “Exactly what I want to hear.”

“Weren’t you leaving…?” you teased, arms folded over your chest. Sam stuck out his tongue at you and quickly disappeared down the steps. You could hear the rhythmic bounce of his footsteps all the way to the bottom floor. You turned back to Bucky. “So, Thursday night football, huh?”

“Steve started it,” Bucky chuckled, a nervous hand raking through his hair. “They’ve been trying to rope me into game nights since baseball season started. Never had the interest before, I guess.”

That was what Sam was talking about; the small changes in his friend, little pieces of hope embedded into each day, small allowances of motivation and joy. He was finding it again. 

“And now?” you inquired and Bucky shrugged. 

“Sounds like it could be nice. Haven’t watched a game with them like that since before—” He swallowed, eyes darting down. It took a minute, a short breath in and a tense exhale before he cleared his throat and pushed out a smile. “Anyway, how are you? I didn’t mean to interrupt if you were hanging out with Wilson, honest.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Sam. He likes the attention too much.” You laughed, stepping a little closer. 

Glancing down at his hand as he held it down by his side – not tucked into his pocket, not curled up in a fist – and you dared to reach for it. You felt the slight twinge of surprise as he jolted under the touch, but relaxed almost instantly as you intertwined your fingers. 

“I’m better now that you’re here,” you said simply, running your free hand soothingly along his arm. It wasn’t unfamiliar contact but it was still new. You could tell it still felt like the first time for him any time you touched him, like he was trying to retrain his body on how to accept touch like this; something gentle and affectionate. You put as much compassion and warmth into each embrace as you could, hoping it might help alleviate some of that anxiety. 

He smiled at you, squeezing your hand in return. “Was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

“Yeah?” 

He nodded, a smile growing on his face as he watched your right hand slide along his arm, running over the bumps in his jacket and feeling for the muscle underneath. If it bothered him, he gave no indication. Instead, he squeezed your hand again, readjusting his fingers, rubbing his thumb sweetly along the back of your hand. 

“Come on,” you nodded, gesturing to the book shelf behind you. “I’ve got more books to put away and I could use some of that company you promised.”

***

Three hours later and Bucky was sitting on one of the beanbags in the Children’s Corner, reading the latest book on a seemingly never-ending list you’d assigned for him: _The Silver Linings Playbook_ by Mathew Quick – the story of a man determined to find the good in the bad as he navigates an evenly matched chaotic love interest, the approval of a strict, suburban Philadelphian family, and an undying loyalty to Eagles’ football.

After Bucky had helped place a few of the novels on the tallest shelves, you insisted you weren’t intent to put him to work and pushed him onto the beanbag chair. Most of the time he pretended to read while he watched you weave around the aisles. Always bright when patrons approached and sneaking a few lines of narrative from each book as you placed it on the shelf, as if you could capture a glimpse of each story and hold it for later. 

You were never more than a few aisles away and he caught you peering over at him every so often, just checking to make sure he was still there. He winked at you as you caught his eye and a laugh would escape passed your lips despite your effort to hide it before you disappeared back to your task. 

He was nearly halfway through the book, using the same clip you’d given him the first day of book club, when he heard the small voice of a child clear their throat. 

A girl, no older than eight, stood behind you as you stocked one of the children’s shelves. She tapped on your spine and backed up a few paces, holding her hands tightly in front of her.

Bucky couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but you knelt down to her level – the same as you’d done for the boy in the café – and nodded intently to what she was saying. Then, after scratching at your head, scrunching up your face in thought, you brought the girl over to a different aisle and pulled out a book for her. 

She glanced over the cover for only a few seconds before she tugged the book tight to her chest and squealed. She thanked you quickly with an enthusiastic wave before she rushed off to a couple standing by the elevator. She wrapped her arms around her father’s legs, excitedly showing her mother the book you’d selected for her. 

But Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. You stood from your place in the aisle as you watched the interaction between the girl and her parents; how the father patted her on the head and ruffled up her hair, much to the child’s infectious delight, how the mother picked up the book and raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Your hands were crossed over your heart, a smile brimming bright on your face. Bucky couldn’t imagine how anyone had come to be as genuine and warm as you were; filled with an unending compassion for others beyond anything he’d ever seen before and a love in the simplicity of kindness. When you looked back over at him, he could hardly catch his breath. 

“Hey,” you called sweetly, skipping up to him. The sleeves of a golden yellow sweater hung past your fingertips and you curled the excess fabric into your palms. “My shift’s over in a few minutes.”

Bucky blinked a few times, pulling himself from his stare before he glanced over at the clocking hanging high above the books. “Wow. That went fast.”

You nodded, swaying on your heels. 

“Luciana’s?” you asked as you bit down on your lip, that nervous kind of look about you like you might actually believe he’d ever turn down more time with you. 

Bucky exhaled a breath of relief, closing the book in his lap. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Come on,” you grinned, extending your hand to him. 

You took the book first, placing it into the small bag draped over your shoulder, and slipped your hand into his. Bucky let you tug him up to his feet, though he didn’t need the help despite the sinking feeling of the bean bag chair numbing his legs. He liked the feeling of your hand wrapped tightly in his own and he liked it even more so when you didn’t let go. 

“Heading out, dear?” Mrs. Jefferson called by the front desk as you passed by. She ran her eyes over Bucky, that signature smirk present upon her lips, though you didn’t seem to notice. She winked at him and he felt the tips of his ears burn red. 

“Yes, ma’am! I’ll see you tomorrow,” you replied, waving her off as you pulled Bucky to the doors. 

It was warmer outside than he was expecting, with children running down the sidewalk and tourists in matching t-shirts chasing on their heels. They carried pinwheels in their hands and bags of popcorn as if they’d been by a carnival – which seemed odd in the middle of Brooklyn. Another family across the street pushed a small child in a stroller with paint on her face in the shape of rainbows and a bag of cotton candy curled up tight in her hand. 

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused. 

“I love this time of year,” you sighed, leaning your head to his shoulder as you walked. “Look at the sky. It’s beautiful.”

The sun was beginning its decent beyond the horizon, the dark cast of a night sky peering over the light blues as they faded into reds and oranges and a distant glimpse of purple. The stars had begun to peak through the clouds.

“Forgot how dark it can get,” Bucky said as you guided him back to the residential streets. 

You shrugged. “Earlier sunset though. Makes for a nicer walk after my shift.”

Bucky smiled at that. You always managed to find the silver lings in every cloud, no matter how dark or grey or filled with rain – you found the good. He wondered for a moment, if you could manage to do the same in him, too. 

“It was nice of you to come by today,” you said. You nudged his hip as you adjusted your hold on his hand with a gentle squeeze. When he looked down at you, you were smiling at him.

“Just like spending time with you.” Bucky shrugged, trying to play it off casually, though his heart was racing. You nodded slowly, the smile growing even wider on your face, though you didn’t say anything. 

The sidewalks were empty on this part of the walk and while a silence had taken over between you, it was comfortable, like the wrap of a warm blanket. Your hand still tucked into his, a gentle squeeze now and then to remind him you were there, a soft humming under your breath. There was a sense of peace in it, a safety he hadn’t known in a very long time. 

The quiet had been his enemy for so long. He’d done everything he could to avoid it; favoring instead the white noise of a broken satellite channel, the clanging of the radiator he’d never fixed, the static of an empty radio station. The quiet allowed too many memories to come through, memories he would have rather left behind when he boarded that plane for the last time. The quiet mocked him and pushed him so far inside himself, he was underwater. 

But now—now there was a kindness in it. The quiet granted him the moments to listen for the gentle rise of your breaths and the hum in your voice. It allowed him a chance to focus on the click of your boots to the sidewalk and the way you said his name like he was something to behold. The silence gave him you. 

And it was ripped away in an instant.

He felt the vibration of it, felt the rumble in his chest and the skip in his heart, before he ever heard the thunderous echo of the explosion. 

No time to react, Bucky shoved you to the ground, throwing his body on top of yours, his arm casting up to shield your face. He couldn’t feel the heat of the fire, but he knew it must be close. 

“Bucky!” you called, frantic, but your voice sounded too far away. His ears were ringing, his heart pounding so loudly he wondered if it could jump straight out from his chest, if it would spill broken and bloody onto your sweater below. 

You called his name again, trying to grab his attention, but it was muffled, like you were calling to him from beneath an ocean. 

He dared a glance back over his shoulder, searching for enemy soldiers, IEDs, tanks, trunks, _anything,_ but he was only met with empty streets, autumn-colored leaves, and brick buildings when he was sure all he would find was dirt and desert. 

Something was wrong.

“Bucky, you’re alright. You’re safe. Focus on my voice,” you called to him again and he felt the touch of something cold on his face. Your hands. Cupping at his cheeks, your thumbs brushing gently over the rush of heat on his skin. He stared down at you, breathing heavy, but you were steady, calm. “Bucky, breathe for me. Come on.”

You took in a deep breath, urging him to follow. 

But no—he didn’t have time. He had to get you to safety. He had to get you out of the line of fire before—

_Another explosion._

He flinched as it erupted, wrapping himself tighter around you, caging you down against the sidewalk in an effort to take the brunt of debris though he felt nothing on his back. You groaned underneath him, a slight pain in your voice.

“Bucky, honey.” Your voice was miles away. He could only hear the last remaining remnants of an echo at the end of a tunnel. Your hands pressed against his face again, urging him to look at you. Your eyes were wide as you searched his, full of concern and maybe even sadness, but no fear. _Why was there no fear?_

“Look up for me,” you told him gently, gesturing to the sky. “You’re safe, Bucky. It’s only fireworks. Look.”

Bucky kept his focus on you. His vision was blurry, a painful ringing piercing in his ears. When you looked up at the sky, tenderly tilting his head to follow, he saw the trail of illuminated sparks against the backdrop of the setting sun as it raced into the sky. 

Then – the explosion.

He still recoiled at the sound as it erupted into his chest, but he kept his eyes focused on the stream of red and gold as it fluttered against the backdrop of deep navies and the peppered brush strokes of fading purples along the horizon, the smoke disappearing in ghosted shadows against the clouds. His lips parted in shock, his breaths coming in a little quicker. 

“No, I… I thought… I was so sure it…” He couldn’t finish a sentence, his mind racing faster than he could speak. He shook his head, staring up at the outlines of the firework long after it faded, the wind carrying it away. _It felt so real._

“Let’s get out of the street, okay?” you soothed, drawing your fingers down his cheeks, smiling encouragingly at him. He nodded, feeling a bit out of it, like maybe he was in some sort of trance.

But then, it happened again.

The firework exploded high into the air and Bucky pressed his face to the crook of your neck, drawing you in as close as he could manage. He was shaking as you ran your hand along his spine.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.” Your voice was the only thing keeping him from disappearing inside himself entirely. He focused on the imprint of your hand on his back, the feel of your fingertips as you traced the lines on his face. He concentrated on the heat in your breath as it touched his cheeks and the pressed of your body under his. 

“I live close by,” you told him, gesturing to a street off the corner. “Let’s go now, alright? Before the next one goes off.”

Bucky nodded quickly, too lost within his own head to feel the rush of embarrassment seeping into his features. His felt nauseous, his arm shaking, his legs weak and numb as he slowly backed off of you. 

As you began to stand, he noticed the tiny rocks embedded into your clothing when they fell down to the sidewalk, bouncing against the concrete by your feet. There were scrapes on your elbows and a tear in your sweater.

“Come on,” you called to him, extending your hand, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the patch of red on your skin. 

But then he spotted another stream of light flying high into the sky and he reached for your hand, gripping it tight before the firework went off. Even prepared, it made him stumble on his feet as it echoed down into the empty streets. 

“Focus on this, alright? Focus on what you can feel,” you said, squeezing his hand tight in your own. You picked up the pace as you guided him a few blocks away from Luciana’s, further into the residential streets.

If Bucky had been in his right state of mind, he would have thought it was rather pretty; the way the sunset cast a stunning illuminated glow onto the faded brick and the pots of flowers hanging from the windowsills. The fireworks lighting up the darkest parts of the sky in effervescent colors. 

You were beautiful as you tugged him along – hair a little misplaced, leaves trapped in the fabric of your sweater, cautious looks back in his direction as you pulled him by his hand. So beautiful, it kept his focus as another firework went off and he felt the hardened pressure of your grip.

“Go on inside,” you instructed, and Bucky realized he was standing at the door to an apartment – _your_ apartment. He didn’t even realize he’d walked up a flight of stairs and crossed inside a building. 

You were staring at him when he looked at you again and it was only then he saw an ounce of fear in your eyes. You squeezed his hand. “Come on now, honey. Please?”

Bucky swallowed, nodding as he stepped inside. He tried to look around, wanted to know the sort of things you kept around your apartment; if it was littered in as many books as you carried in your bag or if it had the warm tones of the colors you wore in your clothing decorated around your living room. He wanted to look at old pictures on the wall and the stand of DVDs you held onto, even without a workable DVD player, as they piled by the television. He wanted to know so much more about you.

Even in the distance, through the walls and the locked windows, he heard the firework erupt into the sky, the flash of it echoing into your apartment and lighting up the living room, and his whole body winced. 

“Couch,” you told him, quickly kicking your shoes to the mat and shrugging off your jacket. You grabbed a book from your bag and tossed it onto the coffee table. When Bucky didn’t so much as move, you took careful steps closer to him and stilled.

“Do you know where you are?” you asked cautiously, almost instinctively, like maybe you’d done that before. 

Bucky swallowed, though it tasted of bile. He nodded.

You bent down to untie his boots. He stepped out when you asked him to, the slight chill of your fingertips against his ankles as you removed the shoes. Then, you grabbed his hand and led him to the couch.

You laid down with your back pressed against the arm rest, one leg draped down along the back cushions, the other hung over the side. You gestured for him to follow, patting at the space of the couch between your legs. 

“I…” Bucky started, finding the words lost on his tongue. He knew it would help. The pressure, the feel of you to ground him back to reality, to keep his mind from the memories swarming back to the surface, but all he could feel was the emptiness on his left, the shame of a missing piece and he couldn’t stand for you to feel it, too.

“Bucky, please,” you urged. “Let me help you.”

The echo of another firework broke into the sky, the light illuminating your apartment, and despite Bucky’s best efforts, his body flinched. 

He clenched his jaw, desperately trying to keep himself in the present moment, to focus on you and the distant scent of a pine candle on the coffee table, but all he could see was a rush of wind, sand in his eyes from the storm, the laughter of a kid far too young to be carrying a weapon of that size, the low hum of a jeep, a reflection over a hillside, someone screaming, his throat raw and burning and—and—and—

“Bucky? Are you—”

He crawled down onto the couch, sinking you into the cushions and resting the full of his body weight against you. He set his head against your chest; his ear pressed to your heartbeat so he could hear the steady thumping inside, the rise and fall of each breath. His right arm snaked up around your shoulder blades, tucking his hand against you like he was cradling a pillow. 

You were incredibly still for a moment, stunned that he gave in, but then he felt you relax under him. A hum nestled in your chest as you slid a hand along his spine, drawing lines and circles to ease the tension in his muscles. The other swept against his hair, pushing it from his eyes, raking into his scalp. 

You laid there with him like that for a moment, soothing your hands along the tension in his body and humming soft melodies under your breath to distract him from the fireworks as they lit up the night sky. He still flinched, but he recovered quicker, focusing on the steady beat of your heart under his ear and the movement of your hands on his spine. 

He felt something warm touch other the crown of his head, a shaken breath brushing over his hair. Then, the book from the coffee table made its way into your right hand, the clip you’d given him on the first day of book club, affixed to the last page he’d read in the library that day. Resting the binding on his shoulder, you began to read. 

_“’When I read the actual story- how Gatsby loves Daisy so much but can’t ever be with her no matter how hard he tries- I feel like ripping the book in half and calling up Fitzgerald and telling him his book is all wrong, even though I know Fitzgerald is probably deceased,’_ ” you started, a soft smile evident in your voice. “ _’Especially when Gatsby is shot dead in his swimming pool the first time he goes for a swim all summer, Daisy doesn’t even go to his funeral, Nick and Jordan part ways, and Daisy ends up sticking with racist Tom, whose need for sex basically murders an innocent woman, you can tell Fitzgerald never took the time to look up at clouds during sunset, because there’s no silver lining at the end of that book, let me tell you.’”_

Bucky sighed, sinking further into your embrace. He didn’t even notice as the final firework took its bow amongst the stars or the burst of applause in the distance, too focused on the gentle vibrations in your voice, the smell of an old book as you flipped through the pages, stealing glances up at your face as you smiled with every word. 

When you finished the chapter, you closed the book and set it gently upon the table. Your hands returned to his hair, carding through it and drawing a hum from his lips.

“You alright?”

Bucky nodded, feeling a little dizzy. He certainly felt alright enough for the numbness to wash away and a steady stream of shame and humiliation to rush in and take its place. Slowly, he lifted himself from your embrace, crawling back against the couch and sitting on the edge of the cushions. You followed him, scooting up against his side.

“I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders sank. “Bucky, please, don’t apologize for—”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff, Y/n,” Bucky sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Bile was etching its way up his throat. He’d never felt so helpless, so small, so vulnerable as if he were no more than a child. He was dead weight on your shoulders. He couldn’t put that on you, he couldn’t let you carry the burden he’d become. 

“What if I want to?” 

He dropped his hand, looking over at you to find you watching him with that same desperation he’d felt to keep you safe when he’d heard IEDs exploding in downtown Brooklyn just moments before. You reached out for his hand, putting it gently into your lap when you were met without resistance and began to trace over the lines in his palm. 

“What if all I want to do is be with you? What if it’s all I can think about?” you continued, a low ache in your voice he didn’t expect. You lifted his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles and drawing a shuttering breath from his lungs. “I’d hold you for an eternity if that was what you needed.”

Bucky stared at you in stunned silence. He was a mess, barely stable and breaking apart at the seams and… and here you were, willing to stitch him together with needle and string. You saw a mosaic when all he could see were broken pieces. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. 

Instead, your hand made its way to his cheek, cupping at the side of his face. Your eyes softened, flickering down to his lips, the touch of your fingertips grazing over his jawline and along his neck like maybe you could feel every pulse of his heartbeat. 

Could you feel his fears, too? The ones that warned him that you wouldn’t like the broken, disfigured fragments he’d become? Could you tell that he was sitting on the edge of a waterfall with the rush of water under his legs, just waiting to be pushed off the ledge? Did you know it was your hand on his shoulder pulling him back to the shore?

He leaned in closer, testing his courage, until his nose brushed against yours. So impossibly close, the heat of your breath warm against his skin. You stayed there for a moment, waiting, foreheads pressed together, until Bucky dared to close the space between. 

Chaste and honest. Slow and aching. He kissed you and the first touch left him breathless, shaken as he drew in an inhale. You pulled him closer, hands wrapped tenderly on the sides of his face and he could feel your lips curve up into a smile as he turned toward you, wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you closer.

God, he’d never wished more for his left arm to find its way back to his body than he did in that moment. He just wanted to feel you in every way he could, to wrap himself around you in his entirety, to hold you the way a woman should be held. 

You pulled back suddenly, laughing under your breath, and he realized your phone was buzzing on the table. You didn’t move for a second, just staring at him, trying to contain your laughter, and he found himself smiling so wide, it reached his eyes. His cheeks ached a little, too. 

He realized it the moment you reached out and wiped your thumb over his lips, how you handled him with such intricacy and care, how you touched him like he was made of worth, how you looked at him like he was something to adore – he was in love with you. 

You lunged for your phone, still smiling as you brought it to your ear. “Hey Nat, I’m kinda busy right— _Oh._ ” Your face fell. “Are you alright?” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his hand setting on your knee to give it a slight squeeze. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” you said into the phone, pressing your lips into an apologetic line. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked as you hung up the phone. You nodded, reaching back out for him and your hand found its way to the side of his face. You held it there, thumb brushing along his cheekbone fondly before you leaned in and pressed slow, brief kiss against his lips – something so casual, so intimate, as if you’d done it a thousand times before. He wished you’d do it a thousand more. 

“I’m so sorry, but… I have to go,” you sighed, a frown pushing down at the corners of your mouth. “Please believe that I’d stay if it was anyone other than Natasha… Something happened at her job and I—”

“No apologies, right?” Bucky eased, resolving your guilt before you even had a chance to allow it to rise to full display. “You don’t have to explain yourself. It’s okay. _I’m_ okay.”

“You’re sure?” You weren’t convinced, but he could tell from the hope in your eyes that you wanted it to be true. 

“Yes,” Bucky replied sincerely. With the fireworks long faded into the night sky and the gentle chirp of crickets beyond your window, the only remaining cause of his racing heartbeat belonged to the woman sitting beside him, the casual touch of your hand against his face. He turned to kiss at the inside of your palm before he lowered your hand into your lap. 

“You could stay here, if you want,” you offered nervously, glancing out to the window half wondering if a new set of fireworks would begin to light against the pitch black of the sky. 

Bucky shook his head, though he smiled for you. “I should head home anyway. I’ve got a book to finish.” 

He reached for _The Silver Linings Playbook_ and held it up in his hand. He had a hard time letting his own smile fall with the way you were looking at him and he tucked the book against his chest as if it could feel his heartbeat. He wondered if you picked this particular book for him in hopes he might start seeing silver linings the way Pat did along the pages of the novel— how you seemed to, as well. 

If anything, you might be his very own silver lining. 

“Come on,” Bucky said, standing from the couch and extending a hand to you. “I’ll walk you there.”

You bit on the edge of your smile in an effort to contain it. It did no use and for that, Bucky was thankful.


	7. Seven

“I _can’t_ believe this happened,” Natasha groaned, sinking further into her couch cushions as if it could swallow her whole. She held a bottle of cheap vodka in her right hand, her left digging through a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Her red hair was untamed for the first time since you’d known her with strands sticking out at the sides and pieces falling out of her braid. She took another swig from the bottle. 

“Maybe it’s not that bad?” you offered, though the slight alteration of your pitch gave way to your doubt. 

Natasha had been hired through her new security firm to work the art rooms at MOMA. You’d walked her through the hiring process and sat through hours’ worth of practice interviews and resume building and anxiously bouncing your knee as you both huddled around the library computer and waited for the email to come through confirming her hire. 

She’d worked so hard for this job. She’d held it for almost six months without incident. 

Nat deadpanned as she wiped the excess droplet of vodka from her lips with the wrist of her sweatshirt. “I tackled a civilian, Y/n.”

“You said he was acting suspicious! Isn’t that enough of a defense?” you tried, betrayed again by your tone. You winced. 

“He was staring at me with those beady little eyes of his,” Nat grumbled, shoving a few more chips in her mouth, continuing before she had a chance to swallow. “He kept looking over his shoulder toward me like he was checking the surveillance of the exhibit, like he might be staging a robbery in his head or coming up with methods to blow it all to shit.” 

She huffed the hair from her eyes, only for it to fall down exactly back into place at the center of her forehead. “Turns out the only plotting he was doing was to get my phone number. Didn’t know that, of course, until I’d had him pinned to the ground and his hands behind his back.”

You sighed. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for veterans like Natasha to struggle in maintaining steady employment. Adjusting to civilian life never came easy. It was why so many soldiers chose to reenlist again and again. Even after years of PTSD and the fractured relationships their distance left behind, they boarded that plane. You’d witnessed it firsthand. 

“They fired me,” Nat admitted, sinking further into the couch. 

She was one at the VA the others feared. With her strong features and deep voice, intimidating glare and the aura of a woman twice her size, no one took to her be anything but the stone-cold persona she amplified. You were one of the few she let her guard down around long enough to see the fragile, loving person underneath. 

“I’m sorry, Nat,” you told her. You reached for her hand, squeezing it in your own. 

She shrugged. “It’s fine. Move on to the next one, right?”

You nodded. Keep moving forward. It was the most she could do. 

“But enough about me,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “What’s going on with you and the broody amputee?” 

_“Nat!”_ You swatted her hard on the arm.

She was unbothered, shoving another handful of chips into her mouth. “Don’t pretend like it’s not completely obvious how much the two of you are into each other. Every time I look up to take a sip of coffee at book club, one of you is making heart eyes at the other. _Spill_.”

You didn’t know where to begin. It felt like you’d known Bucky your whole life. But you started with the moment Sam introduced you at the VA. You told her about the moments at the library and how eagerly he read through every book you placed in his hand. You told her about the coffee trips to Luciana’s and the extra time he spent helping you set up for book club and cleaning up when it ended. You told her about the walks in the park and surprise visits at the library. 

There were a few moments you left out, like Bucky’s panic attack on the crowded streets and the flashback episode the fireworks created, but you told her about the good parts. The holding hands. The comfort you felt when he walked into the room. The kiss you’d shared just a few hours earlier. 

“Shit, we’re talking about _James Barnes_ , right?” Natasha laughed as you told her he’d been the one to press forward to kiss you first. “Sam used to talk about him all the time before he started showing his face around the VA. I’d gotten the impression that he was barely keeping it together after what happened over there, like he was a ghost or something. Sounds like he’s got some game back though.” 

You nodded, a laugh on your lips though it felt a little drained. You thought of the picture on Sam’s desk and the vibrance in Bucky’s smile with his arms thrown over the shoulders of his closest friends. You thought of the version of the man Natasha described, the same one Sam referenced in the library the day before when he thanked you for helping Bucky find himself again. 

Curiosity crept it. It was more than that, though. You wanted to understand how a man so full of life and charm and energy could be wiped clean so quickly. You wanted to know, not for your own selfish indulgences, but so you could better understand the man you were falling for. A man who lost himself for so long and was only now starting to pick up the pieces again. 

“Do you know what happened to him?” you asked, a bitter taste of shame lingering in your mouth.

“I don’t.” Natasha shook her head and you sighed, nodding. You resigned to let the inquiry go entirely – it wasn’t something you’d ever ask Bucky about directly, but then Natasha cleared her throat. “I do know he came home with a Bronze Star, though. Sam said he won’t even look at it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A what?”

“A Bronze Star. It’s awarded for exceptional bravery in combat,” Natasha explained. “My guess is it’s got something to do with how he lost his arm.”

You suspected as much. He carried himself with such distain, as if he couldn’t stand the body he was in. You’d felt the sharp cringe in his back whenever your hand drew too close to his left side, how he’d often stare at you in disbelief whenever you so willingly reached out to touch him. He’d never once removed his jacket in front of you and sometimes you wondered if he made careful avoidance of the mirrors in his own home, too. 

***

The first time you saw Bucky again, you’d kissed him on the sidewalk. Rushed up to him as you skipped steps descending outside the doors of the Brooklyn Library, hands pressed firmly to the sides of his face, and just… _kissed him._

It startled him at first, enough for his arm to hold out at his side, frozen, for just a second too long before it settled on your spine. Your fingers gently traced along the stubble on his cheeks, smiling bright against his lips, and he’d kissed you back as tourists and locals filtered through the busy walkway as if they were little more than a blur around you. 

It became routine, it seemed, for Bucky to be waiting at the steps of the library for you. He didn’t shy away when you raced towards him, didn’t flinch when you reached for his hand, didn’t hold his breath so tight he could hardly focus. 

Instead, he was full of laughter. He made jokes that would put Sam’s cheesy one-liners to shame. He walked with you on empty residential side streets even when his anxiety had started to ease only so could take his time with you, dragging his feet along the pavement to stay by your side as long as possible. It was what he told you, anyway, and your heart just about leapt from your chest. 

You began to see glimpses of the man in the framed picture upon Sam’s desk. Outgoing. Flirtatious. Charming. 

Sam noticed the difference almost instantly. The way his eyes flickered over to the two of you, narrowed upon the absence of space between you both as you leaned against Bucky on the couch, books nestled in your hands. Sam had been standing in the doorway to book club, peering in through the window, when you noticed him staring. His smile grew wide upon his face, a very unsubtle and enthusiastic thumbs-up followed, and you waved him off before Bucky noticed he was there. 

No one in book club asked questions when after another meeting, you’d taken to resting your head on Bucky’s lap as you read, his own book settling on your shoulder. Tony peered over the top of his binding a few times with a curious stare the time Bucky had finished his book early and spend the remainder of the time reading yours over your shoulder, his finger drawing patterns on the top of your thigh, a kiss pressed to your shoulder here and there. Natasha smirked from her seat on the floor. 

It happened so quickly, how easily you’d fallen for him. 

Always in the smallest moments, in the sweetness of his smile, in the way he glanced over at you every so often as if he were checking to make sure you were still there. He opened up pieces of himself to you, set them gently into your hands and waited to see whether you’d keep them safe or throw them to the fire. It was agonizing for him – the vulnerability of trust – but you’d hoped that by protecting the pieces he showed you, he’d feel safe enough to give you more. You wanted it all. You wanted all of him. 

Sam insisted he’d never seen Bucky smile as much as he has been since he met you, including in the time before the war. It surprised you at first, until you remembered the photo on Sam’s desk. It was the same smile Bucky flashed you just moments before when he swiped a bite from your donut while you were talking to Tony. Teasing. Lighthearted. The weight of mere feathers on his back. 

“Y/n? You alright?”

Bucky’s voice drew your attention away from the tourists wandering around the park, taking photographs of the ducks at the edge of the pond and the old oak trees with leaves of fallen red and orange at their roots, the open branches giving way to a view of the Manhattan skyline. 

You blinked a few times, turning to Bucky as he sat on your left, his brows furrowed in concern. You must have been quiet for too long, which was unusual for you, so you pushed out a smile for him, a slight squeeze in his hand. 

“Just thinking,” you told him.

“What about?”

You pulled his hand into your lap, tracing over the lines in his palm absentmindedly. A distant pulse of his heartbeat could be felt in the tips of his fingers. 

“You.” 

He smiled at that, the corners of his mouth curving high up into his cheeks. A twinge of pink rested on the tips of his ears. He chuckled in an effort to hide his nervousness, though it lingered into his voice. “Me? I’m sitting right here.”

“What? I can’t think about you?” you teased, bringing his hand up to your lips as you pressed a kiss to his knuckles. He watched you with the kind of awe that left him speechless for a moment. It was your favorite look on him; how his lips parted ever so slightly, the blue of his eyes shading into something softer, the muscles in his face slacking. 

He cleared his throat. “Uh, I guess that’s okay.”

“Good,” you smirked, setting in against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, playing with his hand in your lap as you watched two little boys chasing the ducks around the pond, flapping their arms and trying to encourage the ducks to fly. 

You’d been sitting on the old, wooden bench under the tallest oak tree for nearly two hours when you glanced up to find a series of dark clouds rolling in and obstructing the cast of red and oranges filtering along the horizon. They hung heavy and ominous as a shadow lingered over the park. 

“Hey Bucky?” you started, sitting up straight as you gestured to the clouds. He had a sort of sleepy look in his eyes like he could have been content to sit there with you all night long. “We should probably get out of here before—” 

You felt the first raindrop on your cheek. Wiping it away, you looked up into the sky just in time as sheets of rain poured out from the clouds. You gasped, grabbing a firm hold of Bucky’s hand and yanking him up to his feet. 

“Come on!” you yelled over the rush of rain as it slammed onto the cobblestones in the park and shook the trees. Bursting into laughter, you threw the hood of your jacket up over your head in a half-ditched effort to stay dry. Bucky’s hand secure in your own, you took off running, only for his laughter to follow you as he chased you down the streets.

Rain drenched into your hair and ran in droplets down your spine, clothes soaked through to the bone by the time you realized where you were running. Luciana’s was just around the corner, calling to you like trumpets at the golden gates. Hot chocolate nestled between your palms, the warm hum of the radiator, nibbling on leftover pastries from the day. Truly, Heaven. 

By the time you reached Luciana’s, you’d nearly slammed into the door trying to get inside. The canopy was incredibly small, no bigger than space for a single person, but you reached out and gripped Bucky by the lapel of his jacket and tugged him beside you to pull him from the rain. You could feel the heat of his breath through his labored pants, the small puffs of warm air pressing out into the cold, and you laughed nervously at how close you were standing. 

“Her daughter has a dance recital tonight,” Bucky read from the sign posted on the inside of the door. “It’s closed.”

Sure enough, as you looked inside, the lights were out, chairs flipped upside down and resting on the tops of the tables. Rain poured against the windows, the mist of it still catching your spine and you pressed up closer to Bucky, nearly against his chest. You tried to control how fast your heart was beating, but you were almost certain he could feel it. 

“Okay, let me think,” you said, more so to yourself, as you looked out into the streets. They were empty, save for a few cars going about ten under the speed limit and a few teenagers sprinting by in backpacks and school uniforms. Your apartment wasn’t too far from here…

“Follow me!” you shouted over the rainfall, grabbing a hold of his hand. 

***

Bucky didn’t have much time to ask questions, because your hand was in his again and suddenly you were dragging him back out into the streets. You took him down the block, through a few back streets, and along a series of brownstones with fallen leaves littering the streets and the high arch of tree branches shading the sidewalk in small relief from the rain.

You skipped up a few stairs, shouldering open the door and pushed Bucky inside. He waiting in the small doorway as you dug through your bag for a pair of keys, wiping a line of rain from your forehead. You exhaled in relief as the door unlatched and you reached for Bucky’s hand again, guiding him inside.

One floor up and the first door on the left, you stepped inside of your apartment and quickly began rushing around to rid yourself of your jacket and the soaking wet shoes on your feet. Bucky stood planted on the doormat, the door closing slowly behind him.

Rain tapped against the outside windows, a dark cloud of grey hanging in the sky and casting a shadow into your living room. A single lamp illuminated the space in a soft yellow tone, touching over dozens of blankets hanging over the couch and bundled up in a basket on the floor, books piled high on the coffee table, newspapers with highlighter marks folded neatly on the kitchen table, and a few cardigans draped over the chairs.

“Can I make you coffee? Tea?” you asked from the kitchen as you wrung out your hair in the sink, shaking off the excess droplets from your hands. Bucky glanced down at the floor, realizing he was carrying water through the hardwoods in your apartment. He winced, quickly making his way back to the doormat.

“I’m alright, thanks,” he said, keeping himself as small as he could on the mat.

“Take your shoes off,” you instructed, pointing to the series of boots lined up by the door. “I’ll go find you some dry clothes.”

With that, you disappeared into your bedroom. 

Bucky stepped out of his shoes, wandering further inside. He’d been too out of it the last time he was inside your apartment, too unfocused with one foot across the ocean to really look around. 

He found himself drawn to the hallway leading up to your bedroom, with pictures hanging along the wall in old, wooden frames. Some from what looked to be your childhood, with softer features upon your face and dressed in overalls and bright pink sneakers. Then, a few from high school with your arms hung around the shoulders of your friends, mid-laugh. But there was one in particular that caught his attention. 

At the very end of the line, hung a photograph of you standing in front of a couple who looked to be your parents. You seemed to be a few years younger, judging by the cut of your hair and the softness in your features. On your left was a man dressed in an air force uniform, hands clasped behind his back. You were standing on an airbase, smiling, but your eyes were red, reflective. Like you’d been saying goodbye and were desperately pretending otherwise.

“This was all I could find,” you said, emerging back from the bedroom with t-shirt and sweatpants in hand. They were too large for you, men’s sizes, and Bucky felt his heart clench as he saw the faded air force logo on top corner of the shirt. He wondered if it belonged to the man in the photo.

“Thank you,” he nodded as you placed them on the counter. 

You were wringing out your hair with a towel when he realized you’d changed, too. The dampness on your skin clung to the fresh cotton of your t-shirt, pulling it tight against your chest. He exhaled a tense breath. 

“God, look at you,” you laughed, a hand reaching up to touch the tips of his hair as they dripped excess water down onto his shoulders. You pushed it to rest behind his ear, brushing the lingering rain from his cheeks. “It’s unfair, you know?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused. “What is?”

“That you look this handsome soaking wet.”

His instinct was to laugh, but the way you were looking at him made his breaths a little shallow, his stomach twisting into knots. You weren’t teasing as you said it, no lingering joke in its wake. He swallowed. 

“I… uh… _what?_ No.” He tried to brush it off, but your hands had slid along his waist behind the hem of his jacket and it stopped him dead in his tracks. 

He held his breath as you flattened your palms against his stomach, running your fingers over what once had been hardened muscle before he let himself fall into darkness that took over his life for months. Now, his body favored something softer. You didn’t seem to mind though as you bit down on the fullest part of your lip, hands sliding around to his spine. 

“Let me take this off? Please?” you asked, voice low, with the kind of inflections laced within your tone that made Bucky shift uncomfortably in his stance. Your hands slipped up along his chest, lingering by his shoulders and you gripped onto the lapel. It was soaking wet. 

“You must be freezing,” you tried again, a little lighter this time, offering him a sweet smile. You must have noticed his apprehension because you softened a bit, letting your hands rest against his cheeks as you drew his attention to you. “It’s alright, Bucky. It’s just me.”

He searched your eyes as you gazed up at him and though he tried, he found no reason to turn you away. His heart was pounding in his chest, his right hand shaking a bit, but then, you leaned forward and captured his lips against your own, and suddenly, he was at ease again.

You kissed him and his right hand found its way to rest against your lower back, pressed flat against your spine; it clenched into the fabric, seeking more, and his fingertips brushed over a sliver of bare skin. He felt your hands slid down along his neck, to his collar, until they slipped under the fabric of his jacket against, resting on his shoulders. You were waiting for his permission. 

Then, as you pulled away from his lips for only a second, he nodded. Your lips returned to his almost instantly, and he wondered if maybe you were trying to distract him, or help to ease him as the fabric draped down off his shoulders. His heart was thunderous in his chest, louder than the press of rainfall against the windows outside, but there was a sense of calm in it, a nervousness certainly, but a comfort, too. 

He felt the weight of the jacket lift from his shoulders as you set it to hang over the chair. He felt instantly lighter, like you’d removed an anvil from his back, and he suspected it had less to do with the rain-soaked fabric than he cared to admit. He kept his eyes closed as your hands roamed along his shoulders, focusing on the feel of your lips as they traveled from the corner of his mouth along his jaw line. 

“Bucky?” you called so sweetly it nearly made his knees buckle. 

“Mmm?” He felt a little dizzy, high on the touch of your lips to his skin. 

He heard the soft ruffle of fabric as you grabbed the clean clothes you brought for him on the counter. Then, your hand slipped into his and he let his eyes flutter open. You were watching him with more affection than he was prepared for. His heart lurched forward, aching to jump right into your arms.

“Come this way.” 

He nodded, trailing behind you as you led him into your bedroom. The lighting was dim, barely casting in a soft orange glow from the lamp at your bedside. The clouds were still dark and heavy as they hung outside the windows, the rain obstructing the view of the brownstones across the street. 

“Here,” you set the clothes on the bed. “Get changed alright? I don’t want you catching a cold.”

You smiled for him and his heart just about burst. Then, you disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. 

Bucky stepped forward, running his hand over the Air Force logo in the top corner of the t-shirt. He picked up the shirt, and held it against his nose. It smelled like you, like maybe you’d been wearing it for years now, but there was a name written in sharpie on the inside tag. It was barely legible, but it didn’t look like your own. He tried not to think about who gave you this shirt and who wore it before him, and he quickly removed the damp one soaked to his skin in favor of the one you’d given him. 

He changed his pants, too, and a wash of relief came over his body as the chill faded from his skin. The clothes were warm, soft, and he raked his fingers through his hair, thankful it had dried enough to stop from dripping down onto the fabric.

“Hey,” you called, emerging from the bathroom. Your eyes paused on him for a moment, taking him in with the fresh clothes on and something unrecognizable flashed over your features – something that resembled sadness. You shook it off quickly, pushing out a smile as you walked toward him. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your hairline as you wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

You leaned up to kiss him again and he swore everything around him came to a sudden stop. You tugged him down onto the bed, sliding in behind him as you threw the covers over you. Bucky kept his back pressed to the mattress as you climbed over his waist, settling with just enough of your weight compressing against him that he found a relief in it. 

His right hand slipped along your waist line, sliding flat over bare skin, warm to the touch. You smiled against his lips and he found himself laughing as you peppered kisses along his cheekbones, his nose, his hairline, down along his jaw, and then finally – back to his lips again.

So lost in you, in the moment, he felt his left hand slid along the underside of your shirt, fabric brushing over the top of his hand as he touched over your ribs and inching closer to your chest. He stifled a moan as he cupped at your breast, swiping his thumb along the pebbled nipple. It wasn’t until he felt an echo of a muscle spasm at his left shoulder that he realized he wasn’t feeling anything at all. 

His eyes snapped open and he found his right hand at the base of your spine, your shirt untouched. Reluctantly he glanced down at his left side; the open sleeve of the t-shirt leaving no pretenses in its wake. He was empty there. A piece of him missing. He tried to swallow back the frustrated groan before it passed through his lips, but you heard it. You felt it, too.

“Bucky?” you questioned, concern littering your eyes as you pulled away. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, of course not,” he replied quickly, brushing his hand along the side of your face until it drew a smile back to your lips. The way you were watching him, like maybe he could entrust you with the darkest parts of himself, if only for glimpse, and it pushed him to say more. “I just… I hate that I can’t hold you the way I want. There’s more that I would—” He groaned, head sinking back into the pillows. “I’m not used to… I don’t— I don’t know how to with only one… um…I haven’t— Not since before—” 

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, his ears flushing red. You seemed to understand what he was saying as you nodded ever so slightly; the fact that he’d barely learned how to manage his life again with only one arm – everything from washing his hair to getting dressed in the morning, to chopping vegetables and reading a book. He hadn’t even attempted to consider what it was like to be with a woman like this; to want to hold her and please her and touch as much of her as he could. It never crossed his mind before you. 

“I’m in no rush,” you said simply, like maybe you were implying you’d wait around long enough for him to figure it out. Or maybe, you’d be willing to help him learn again. You leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s late. You’ll stay tonight, won’t you? I don’t want you out in that storm.”

Bucky nodded, feeling a little dizzy as he stared up at you. Backlit from the soft glow of the lamp illuminating around you like a halo, Bucky would have said yes to just about anything you could have asked of him. Relief pressed over your features and you sank down onto the bed beside him, curling up against his right side. 

Your arm draped across his waist as his circled around your shoulders, fingertips drawing patterns along your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then, you reached over him to turn off the lamp and a comfortable darkness blanketed the room, the only break from the silence the gentle tap of the rain against the windowpane. 

For the first night in months, he welcomed the kind embrace of a dreamless sleep. 


	8. Eight

Bucky wasn’t quite sure how to hold onto this feeling without suffocating it. 

It had been nearly a year since he’d felt even an ounce of the relief like what washed through his body when you walked through the door. All it took was a single smile from across the room, the soft brush of your hair over your fingers as you nervously tucked it behind your ear, and he was _gone._

Enough for his cheeks to ache from smiling. Enough for his stomach to twist and knot from laughter. Enough for the wrinkles by his eyes to draw long and pronounced— the physical embodiment of joy upon his face. 

He wasn’t walking on eggshells, waiting for the carpet to be dragged out from under his feet, for the paralyzing darkness of an empty void to consume him whole. The shadows weren’t lingering in his wake, itching to clench their claws into his spine and drag him away from the one thing that finally drew light back into his life. 

For the first time since he stepped back on American soil, Bucky Barnes was happy. Truly and honest to God, _happy._

“So! What do you think?” your voice called to him, breaking the trance he’d been in. 

“Hmm?” Bucky blinked a few times to adjust to his surroundings. You were laughing at him, a hand over your lips in an effort to muffle the sound. Behind you, a woman directed a pointed stare in your direction despite the busy chatter inside Luciana’s. 

“ _The book_ , Bucky,” you grinned, tapping on the edge of the binding. 

He glanced down. _The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue_ sat propped in his right hand, the clip you’d given him the first day of book club nestled in at the center to keep the pages open. Truthfully, he hadn’t read a single word of it since he sat down with you an hour ago. His attention had been better kept watching how you tugged your lower lip between your teeth in concentration, how your eyes widened at a particularly suspenseful part of your chapter, how you clicked your nails against the coffee mug in perfect rhythm with the café music. 

“It’s good,” he said, though you pouted at him. 

“Bucky you’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes!” 

Busted. He shrugged, a laugh in his breath. 

“Guess there were better things to look at.” 

Your lips parted for a second, caught off guard, before you settled back into your seat. Your hands wrung out in front of you, eyes darting down the floor. It wasn’t easy to make you flustered, but damn if it was Bucky’s favorite feeling in the world. 

“Don’t insult my books like that, Barnes,” you teased, lingering smile upon your face. 

“Wouldn’t call it an insult,” he said simply. “There’s not much that can hold a candle when you’re around.” 

The stun didn’t leave your face for a few seconds. You stared at him, then glanced around the room nervously as if he’d said something incredibly intimate. He couldn’t remember the last time this came so easy to him – the flirting, the charm. It was something he’d thrived on before the war and now, it seemed you brought that side out of him again. 

“You’re a charmer today,” you observed, laughing through the nervous energy. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing.” Bucky shrugged, reaching across the table to break off a piece of your pastry and plopped it into his mouth. “I’m happy. Can I be happy?” 

You nodded quickly, almost a little too enthusiastically, with a smile so wide on your face he wondered if it were possible for it to touch your ears. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you can be happy.” The words left your lips almost breathlessly. You were looking at him like he was the goddamn sun and damn if that didn’t tug straight at his heart. “I like you happy.” 

“I like me happy, too,” Bucky chuckled. He glanced up at the clock. “Come on, we should head over to the VA.” 

You downed the rest of your coffee in a single chug and set the cup on the counter. Luciana waved at you as you moved towards the exit, Bucky in tow, and she winked at him as he passed by. He nodded, offering her a tight-lipped smile as he stepped out into the cool Autumn air. Your hand naturally slipped into his and you tugged him along the sidewalk. 

“Promise me you’ll actually pay attention to Steve’s spiel instead of staring at me the whole time,” you teased him as you walked over the crosswalk, nudging his side. 

Steve was giving a presentation at the VA for the open house; explaining the benefits, the groups, different opportunities, and the respite rooms. It was a big deal apparently and helped to bring a lot of former soldiers into the fold. It was one of your favorite days because there was usually an increase of members at book club for a few weeks after. 

“No guarantees,” Bucky replied, face as even as he could manage it. That was, until you swatted his chest and he burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a group of teenagers who eyed him as they walked by. Their lingering stare meant nothing to him when he stood at your side. 

When you reached the VA, you pushed open the door, considering his hand was otherwise occupied, and led him inside. There were dozens of people in the lobby, certainly more than he’d ever seen inside. Men and women were mingling around the tables, some sitting on the couches, with paper plates of cheese and crackers from the grocery store. 

Tony stumbled by carrying about four boxes filled with cookies, barely keeping his balance. 

“I could use a little help, kid!” he called, eyeing you as he frantically made his way to the kitchen. 

“Coming, Tony!” You turned to Bucky, smile still present on your face as you ran a hand along his arm in comforting sweeps. “Will you be alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m good. Go.” 

Maybe if he looked close enough, he might have seen a well of pride on your face, but you didn’t give him the chance before you leaned up and pressed a kiss straight to his lips— no cares for the crowd in the room or the fact that Sam and Steve were lingering around the VA somewhere. Bucky couldn’t find it in himself to worry about the stares because, hell, maybe he wanted people to know you were the woman he had the privilege of kissing. 

_“Go,”_ Bucky said again, pulling away from you reluctantly as a clanging could be heard from the kitchen, followed by an aggravated moan which could have only belonged to Tony Stark. You pouted, stealing one last kiss before bolting down the hall and out of sight. 

Bucky spent a few extra seconds staring down the end of the empty hallway before he turned back to the room. The crowd didn’t bother him as much as it might have a few months earlier. He didn’t feel the same rush of anxiety in his veins as he felt on busy streets, but it didn’t mean he was explicitly comfortable either. 

So, he kept to the outskirts of the room, standing along the wall and observing quietly from the corners. 

The event seemed to be going well. He’d spotted Steve mingling with a group of older guys with long white beards and biker jackets, laughing as they told him about their adventures biking cross country. Sam found his way over to the couch beside a few of the guests who had busied themselves with the food instead and even found a way to get them talking to one another. Bucky kept his hand pressed into his pocket, a semblance of a smile on his face as he watched Sam pick a chip of the plate of the woman he was talking to without reservation. 

It was a good place. A respite. Just like Sam had told him it would be. Bucky found a sense of normalcy in this building he couldn’t have hoped to find out in the real world alone— a _belonging –_ and he knew a lot of that had to do with you. 

He was just about to head down to the kitchen to see if you needed any help when he heard a voice that ran like ice through his veins. What it had said was indistinguishable, but Bucky could recognize the thick grovel of the tone almost anywhere. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, trying to remain as small as possible, as he spotted Jack Rollins emerging from the entrance.

With slicked jet-black hair, hardened angular lines upon his face, and a permanent scowl etching down on his features, Jack Rollins was not a man Bucky ever wanted to see again. He spoke with the two men in his wake, gesturing to a woman who was standing quietly by herself, reading the flyers on the bulletin board, as if he were stalking prey. 

Bucky’s heart was thunderous as he took a step back. His black slammed against the wall, catching the breath in his lungs. His fingertips brushed over the chill of the pealing wallpaper, trying to find his grounding before Rollins noticed he was there. But luck was never so kind to him. 

It only took one scan of the room before Rollin’s eyes landed on Bucky. He stilled, just as surprised to see him, but then, something dark twisted upon his features. 

“Sergeant Barnes!” he called over the crowd, a jeering sort of laugh in his voice. 

Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to meet Rollins in the eye. “Jack.” 

“Been over a year, man. How you been?” Rollins was conversational only in statement. His tone was near threatening, his men following behind him like a shadow. Dark eyes trailed down along the empty sleeve on Bucky’s side, a smile rising on his face. 

Bucky tried to pretend as though he didn’t notice. “Recovering. You?” 

“Yeah, I bet you are.” Rollins chuckled. Then, he puffed his chest up. “ _I’ve_ been working for the private sector.” 

That didn’t surprise him. Rollins always had an affinity for the darkest parts of the job overseas. He took too much pleasure in the use of his weapon, paid no mind to the destruction left behind in his wake. Rollins was exactly the sort of man the military hoped to produce; follow chain of command without question, find purpose in your mission, execute without remorse. Seemed he found more of the same when he returned home. Only this time for a bigger paycheck. 

Bucky could still picture him dressed in army camouflage with the weight of near forty pounds of combat gear on his back, finger always on the trigger. It felt a bit like that now, Bucky realized, as Rollins narrowed his eyes as if he were going in for the kill. 

“You know, Barnes,” Rollins shrugged, exchanging a snide grin with his friends, “I’m a little surprised you’d even show your face around here after what happened. Takes guts.” 

Bucky swallowed as though there weren’t blades in his throat. He tried not to let the hitch in his breath show or how his stomach dropped about ten feet below the surface. Instead, he pressed his lips together into a thin line, holding Rollins’ stare as if he were made of stone. 

“You should leave,” Bucky said, his voice low enough to break gravel. 

“ _Me?_ ” Rollins mocked, laughing as he turned to his friends. Then, facing Bucky again as a darkness clouded over his features. “That’s rich, coming from _you._ ” 

Bucky held his breath. He tried to draw on images of you sitting across from him at Luciana’s, how you smiled at him, how you made him feel like he didn’t carry such a heavy weight upon his back. He pictured you curled up next to him in your bed, imprints of the pillow on your cheeks and the covers pulled up tight to your chin. He imagined how your hand felt in his, how it brushed along his back, how your lips felt on his cheek, on his mouth. 

But those pictures started to fade the longer Rollins stared at him, that devilish smirk upon his face as he ran a hand along his jawline, cracking his knuckles against the bone. Those comforting images of you sunk into the darkness, pulled from him somewhere far beyond where he could reach and suddenly, he felt like he was standing on a pillar at the center of the ocean, nothing but violent waves surrounding him for miles. Alone. 

“I mean, what the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?” Rollins jeered, picking up a cookie from the table, inspecting it for a moment before he tossed it back on the platter. It crumbled on impact. “You think you even deserve to step foot in this building after what you did?” 

“It didn’t go down like you think,” Bucky shot back, his voice uneven, wavering, as if he didn’t quite believe it himself. 

He tried to repeat the words that Sam had worked to instill in him again and again for months after he came home. They never seemed to stick until the last few weeks but now – now they felt as far away as ever. 

_I did everything I could._

_Some things are outside of my control._

_It wasn’t my fault._

He wasn’t sure he believed that with Jack Rollins circling around him like a vulture, amused by the distress quickly forming against Bucky’s features. 

From across the room, Sam stood up from his place on the couch, a hand gesturing over to Steve as he caught sight of Rollins. Bucky retreated in his stance, feeling as though Rollins was towering over him, his chest caving in. Rollin smirked, teeth bared and ready to strike. 

With venom like precision, Rollins spat, “You’re the reason half our unit is dead, asshole.” 

It hit like a sucker punch to the gut, made him stumbled back a few paces as if he were clocked in the chest. The initial blow only lasted for a few seconds before the overwhelming sense of shame seeped back into his veins, slipping through his blood like muddied waters and stealing away the careful, steady progress he’d made. 

Then, a lingering acceptance as it cleared him to the surface. 

A numbness took over, casting back to the shadows inside his mind. It was what he’d been waiting for since the day he’d stepped foot off that plane – for someone to confirm all the destruction and self-loathing he’d felt since that day. 

Rollins was right. 

_I could have saved them._

_I could have prevented all of it._

_It was my fault._

He’d been foolish to convince himself otherwise. 

_“Hey!”_ Sam barked, jutting out in front of Bucky and shoving a hand to the middle of Rollin’s chest as he attempted to draw closer. “What the fuck is your problem, man?” 

“ _My problem?_ My problem is you’re letting just about anyone walk through those doors!” Rollins shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky. “Your buddy here is responsible for eight of our own coming home in caskets!” 

Bucky flinched, visibly recoiling as if something had burned him, and it seemed to be the reaction Rollins was looking for because a snide grin slid up along his cheeks. 

Steve was suddenly on his left, a hand pressed to his shoulder. He was whispering something in his ear, but he couldn’t quite hear him. He could hardly make out what Sam was shouting as he attempted to push Rollins towards the door. A crowd was gathering – standing in watch to observe the shame of a soldier who should have burned in the desert with his friends. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky’s heart dropped at the sound of your voice as you appeared on his right. He didn’t know how long you’d been there or what you heard, but it was the first time he ever regretted allowing himself the luxury of your presence, of your warmth and kindness. You should have been an anchor beside him, but he could feel the rope slipping from his grip, letting him sink down into the ocean or float high into the clouds – somewhere far away from where you were. 

You ran your hand along his arm, trying to thread an ounce of comfort back into his body, but he was rigid as stone. The touch was paralyzing. It was a reminder of his emptiness, of his ill attempt to be worthy of your affection. You seemed to notice as you stared up at him, worry filling your eyes. 

“Ah, so you’ve got a girl now, too?” Rollins sneered towards Bucky, shoving Sam aside. 

“Leave her out of this,” Bucky warned, his voice returning to him only in your defense. He stepped out in front of you, shielding you from Rollins’ gaze. 

It only seemed to amuse him more. “Tell me, sweetheart. What’s it like? I mean, can he even get the job done? You wanna try being with a real man again?” 

It was Sam that roared in response. “Watch your fucking mouth!” 

Your hand rested on Bucky’s shoulder blades as if you were trying to ease him but he felt like he was on fire. Rollins shoved Sam aside to get a better look at you, a predator going in for the kill. 

Rollins’ cold eyes stared directly into yours and Bucky felt his breathing stop. 

“Did you know half of our unit died under his watch?” 

Everything became white noise after that. Bucky didn’t dare turn to look at your reaction, nor could he hear Sam’s defense or Steve’s angry shouts as Rollins continued his taunts. He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly, Rollins was on the floor. Sam was shaking his hand out, holding his fist against his chest. 

Rollins stumbled his way back to his feet with a vengeance, folding his hands into fists as he charged at Sam. 

“Get him out of here!” Steve’s muffled voice called to you as the crowd began to swarm in. Former soldiers joining the chaos, cheering or barreling fists. A man bumped into Bucky’s shoulder, but there was no trace of a reaction on his face. He was empty. He was numb. 

Bucky could vaguely feel your hand as you slipped it into his pocket, drawing his own to intertwine between your fingers and you tugged him down the hall. He knew better than to look over his shoulder at the mess he was leaving behind. 

*** 

You took Bucky into the empty library, quickly closing the door behind you to muffle the sound of the shouting down the hall. Bucky stood at the head of the couch, his eyes downcast. 

“Are you alright?” You knew there was no good answer. It was a foolish question. And still – you asked. 

Your hands slid along Bucky’s chest, up to his shoulders to try and draw some of the tension away, and for the first time, he recoiled under your touch. Your hands quickly dropped down to your sides as you took a few steps back, hands held tightly in front of you. A flash of remorse covered his features as he looked at you, but then the stone swept back in its place and hardened the softened edges you adored. You pushed aside the splinter inside your chest. 

“Who was that guy anyway? He seems like a real piece of work.” You laughed, though it was tense and forced. Bucky didn’t so much as crack a smile. 

It was silent for a moment. The only sound coming from the low hum of the radiator in the corner of the room. Bucky’s gaze was fixated on the carpet, staring at the years’ faded stains and the dust bunnies at the foot of the couch. A terrible aching tugging down on his lips, on his eyes, on his cheeks, and he barely resembled the man who had teased you over coffee at Luciana’s just an hour earlier. 

“He was right, though.” 

You swallowed, daring to ask, “what do you mean?” 

“I’m the reason half my unit is dead,” Bucky replied flatly. When he looked at you again, you found his eyes were red, his lips swollen from chewing on the edges. His right hand had indents in his palm from where he’d dug his nails into the skin. Your stomach lurched. 

“Oh, Bucky.” Your heart broke at the sight of him. “That… That can’t be true.” 

He didn’t say anything, but the grit in his teeth was enough to tell you that he believed it. You’d only seen glimpses of how the war had touched him, how it cast shadows over the man he’d been before he stepped on that plane and adorned the uniform, but now – now, it felt like those shadows had consumed him whole. He couldn’t so much as see the soft rise of the sun over his shoulder. He was too swept up in the embrace of darkness. The light couldn’t touch him where he stood shielded by night. 

“Why don’t we go to my place?” you offered, inching a step closer. When he didn’t retreat, you gathered his hand into your own. While he didn’t pull away again, you could feel the reluctance in his grip, the rigidity in his stance. “I can make dinner and we’ll throw on a movie, okay? Let’s just get out of here.” 

Your right hand slid along the side of his face, cupping at his cheek. He usually leaned into the touch, pressed a kiss to the inside of your palm. Instead, the most he could force out was a tight-lipped smile that did not touch his eyes. You could practically feel how hard he was clenching his jaw, the muscle tired and aching. Still, he nodded. 

As you led him out the back exit of the VA, you glanced behind you to see Rollins sitting on the floor, nursing a bloody nose as a police officer stood over him, jotting down notes as he spoke with Steve. Sam caught your eye for a second, nodding in your direction. A relief washed through you and you tugged Bucky outside before anyone could notice him slip out. 

It was silent the whole walk to your apartment. It wasn’t entirely unusual, but it was the first time the air carried a lingering sense of discomfort in it. You wondered what was going on in Bucky’s head, how badly he’d construed whatever Rollins had said to him, even before you arrived. Sam had told you of Bucky’s self-destructive habit of carrying guilt far heavier than he could carry, guilt that didn’t belong to him. He seemed to welcome it like it was made for him. He didn’t mind if it ripped him apart and left him broken and empty when it was done. He seemed to think it was what he deserved. 

You squeezed his hand, hoping it might draw back a sense of comfort, but he kept his eyes forward on the empty streets ahead. His hand was little more than limp in your hold. 

*** 

Bucky was just on the edge of sleep when it began to creep up on him. Slow at first, and then, sudden, in violent flashes. 

_Sweltering heat. The low rumble of a jeep. An infectious laugh on his left and the cold compress of a gun in his hands. A sudden stop._

Bucky gritted his teeth, trying to turn away from the images attempting to draw him under, to sweep him beyond the current, to drown him in the darkest parts of the depth. But the riptide caught hold of his leg and forced him underwater. 

_Heavy equipment on his back. Sand under his feet. The sun blinding in his eyes._

He swallowed, but his throat was lined in rust. It burned. He couldn’t breathe. 

_A reflection over a valley. Someone shouting. Screaming. Warning. Frantic._

_The kid. Get to the kid!_

_Then – the heat of a fire scorching his skin. Ringing in his ears. Muffled. Agonizing silence. Blood on the sand, on his shoes, dripping down his side and soaking into his uniform._

_Pain. So much pain. So much pain. So much—_

Bucky’s eyes shot open. He sucked in a breath of air and it came in short and shallow, barely filling his lungs, and he was panting for more. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gasping for breath until he took enough in that the dizziness started to subside. His forehead was lined in sweat, his right hand shaking uncontrollably as he gripped at the sheets. 

It was as mild as it’s ever been – the nightmares. Usually, he woke up screaming, his voice so raw it ached until morning. He thrashed and kicked and drew blood until something finally jarred him awake. He’d broken the lamp beside his bed four times in the weeks after he came home. It was violent and messy, and it was a damn miracle he’d only felt a sliver of it tonight. 

But it had been so long since he had one. He almost thought they had finally released him from their hold before Rollins showed up. For a while, they let him be happy. He should have known better than to expect it to last. 

The mattress dipped slightly behind him and with a sharp hilt, Bucky suddenly remembered where he was. 

He turned over his shoulder to find you laying on the bed beside him, hair cast up and around you against the pillow, eyes closed, the steady rhythm of your breaths indicating you were still fast asleep. He stilled for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the light scrunch in your nose. 

You’d tried so hard to get him to smile the whole evening after what happened at the VA. Constant touches to his cheeks, along his arm, playing absentmindedly with his hand. You made him dinner and curled up against him as you put on a movie that you were certain would turn his mood around, but he remained stoic and cold until you finally resigned to the bedroom. 

He could tell how exhausted you were. Even reaching for his hand, there was a helplessness in your grasp, but you’d begged him to stay, insisting you didn’t want him to be alone after what happened at the VA. You held him tight to your chest, told him over and over again that you didn’t care what Rollins said, you knew he was a good man and that was all that mattered. 

Bucky wanted so badly to believe that. 

But here you were – so beautiful, a _light,_ somethinggood in his life he didn’t deserve. 

Sam would kill him for giving into those thoughts again, but all he had in his head was violence and agony and there you were – so peaceful and soft and kind. He’d taint you with all the mess threatening to break through his seams. He’d hurt you. He’d break you. You couldn’t hold him together no matter how hard you tried. He didn’t deserve such kindness. Today reminded him of that. 

Bucky leaned in and pressed a short kiss to your temple. It was feather light and still, you sighed in your sleep. He tried not to notice when the corners of your lips curved up into a smile. 

Then, he crept out of the room, stealing one last look at you as you turned onto your side, arms crossed over your chest protectively. Something tugged inside his chest, begging him to stay. He could feel it pushing him back toward the bed, to your embrace and the comfort it brought, but he turned his back. He ignored his every instinct to return to your side and dragged his feet of the bedroom instead. 

Despite his reluctance, he found himself lingering on the photograph in your hallway of the Air Force pilot; sandy blonde hair, a tight-lipped smile, features that made him look younger than he probably was. A pang of jealousy wretched into his stomach at the sight of this nameless man. Shame quickly followed. 

You never spoke of the man in the photo – the nameless Air Force pilot who stood at your side in front of your parents. The way you pressed out a smile despite your tears, the position of your stance angled closer to the pilot as if to preserve your last remaining moments together, made Bucky question what had happened to this man. This was clearly a man you had loved. Might still love. 

Bucky didn’t dare allow himself to wonder if he had ever measured up. He supposed now he would not get the chance. 

Bucky let out a sigh as he turned away from the picture. He made it all the way to the door before he heard the squeak of the floor boards behind him. 

“Bucky?” 

Sleep was still etched in your voice. You yawned as you folded your arms, squinting at him to adjust to the dim light in the kitchen. Bucky clenched his jaw, reluctantly turning to face you. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” you said, eyes flickering to the clock above the stove. It was then you must have noticed the jacket draped over his shoulders, boots on his feet, hand begrudgingly releasing the door knob. Your face fell. “Where are you going?” 

He didn’t know what to say. Was there an easy way to break your heart? Was there any excuse that could allow both of you to walk away from this unharmed? There was no good answer, but his silence certainly was worse. 

“Bucky?” you tried again and he could hear the inflection of concern etched into your tone. You took a step closer to him and he held himself firm. He was stone now. It was what he had to be. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered out, voice low, though he met your eye. “I can’t do this.” 

If you were still half asleep a moment ago, you weren’t anymore. Your eyes widened, lips parting. Your arms fell down to your sides. 

“What… What are you talking about?” you exhaled, barely above a whisper. He could hear the hurt in your voice, the confusion, and he hated himself for it. You stepped closer, reaching out for his hand. “Please, just come back to bed. You look like you haven’t slept for—” 

Bucky pulled his hand away the moment you touched his fingers. It forced a hitch in your breath, a step back. You hadn’t expected him to recoil from you like that. Two times in the same day. You were losing him, the realization clear in your eyes. He was slipping and he would not take the tether as you threw it to him. 

“This is about what that man said at the VA, isn’t it?” you asked timidly, your lip quivering. You shook your head, trying to hold back tears though Bucky could practically hear the tension from the lump in your throat. “He was… he was just being cruel. I don’t believe a word of it. And neither does Sam or Steve – _the people that love you_ , Bucky. Don’t give in into him. Don’t let him win.” 

Bucky didn’t say anything, rendering his reaction colder than you deserved. 

You reached out for him again, a habit, though you pulled your hand back to your chest before you could touch him. It was shaking. 

“Honey, please,” you tried again, unwilling to give up on him like you should. “Come get some rest and maybe you’ll feel better in the morning. Just… don’t go. Don’t be alone with this.” 

You were begging. He could hear it in your voice. The desperation. And still—Bucky offered you nothing in return. 

He sank so far inside himself you couldn’t reach beyond the cliffside to offer your hand. All it took was a single push. He was already standing so close to the edge. Rollins had set a hand on his back, like an old friend, like an enemy, and shoved. Bucky didn’t even try to catch his fall. 

“Whatever this is…” Bucky murmured and eyes focused down at the tile, unable to look at you as he broke your heart, “it’s over.” 

His heart was splintering as he said it and still, he turned and left without another word. He didn’t wait for your response, didn’t wait to see whether his cruelty had ended in tears, and closed the door behind him. You didn’t attempt to follow. 

You’d understand eventually, he convinced himself. Even a woman as compassionate and loving as you couldn’t possibly love a man so broken, with jagged edges and open wounds, with shards of glass embedded inside him and poison in his touch. Empty and hollow. Broken. 


	9. Nine

You didn’t let him go easy. 

You’d called him no less than six times before he even made it home that night; an image appearing on his phone of you hiding behind an open book, your lips covered by the binding, smile still evident in your eyes and nestling into the laugh lines in the corners. Bucky watched as the screen turned black before he shoved it in his pocket and set it on silent. 

It was for the best, he told himself. You’d hurt for a little while but you’d move on. You’d get over him and find someone better— someone _whole._ He couldn’t keep going with his life pretending as though he deserved anything more than the lonely existence he was living in before he met you. His left side was a constant reminder of that. 

He wasn’t going to bring you down with him. If you were the sun, setting brushstrokes of vibrant colors in the sky, illuminating a golden ray and warmth in your presence, he was the dark embrace of a cold night. He was emptiness— a void. He’d destroy you given enough time and he’d rather cast himself to the darkness than dampen your light. 

*** 

The sharp vibration beside him quickly snapped Bucky from his trance. He blinked a few times, eyes dry from staring at the television. He centered his focus upon the actors on the screen, realizing he didn’t know the characters’ names or what show he’d been watching. It might as well have been static. 

Bucky reached for his phone, the muscles in his right arm aching and tired from disuse. His spine cried out with every movement and he began to wonder how long he’d been swallowed by the couch. There was no trace of sunshine beyond the curtains outside or the busy footsteps of his neighbors in the hallway. His stomach growled. He ignored it. 

Instead, he glanced down at his phone and tried not to wince. Five days after he broke your heart and he still couldn’t bring himself to change the image on the lock screen. He didn’t know whether it was a meaningless hope he held onto it or a sadistic punishment to remind himself of the woman he could have loved if not for the dark emptiness in his chest. 

**_Bucky please talk to me,_ **the message read. It was the twelfth sent since he left your apartment that night. He hadn’t responded to a single one, not that it stopped you from sending another several hours later. They came like clockwork, as if you’d somehow known when he was sinking so far into himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever crawl out the other side again, his phone buzzed. 

**_Say something. Please._ **

**_Don’t do this to yourself. Let me help you._**

**_Please don’t close yourself off again._ **

**_I’ll bring Sam into this and I know you don’t want that._**

The last one – sent just before he’d dragged his feet to bed the previous night – had left a ghost of a smile against his lips, enough to make him forget, only for a moment, of the demons that laid in his wake. It was gone before he could feel the twitch in his cheeks, but he supposed it was your intention – to make him smile. All you ever wanted to do was make him smile. 

Still—he didn’t respond. He let the phone fall from the tips of his fingers and onto the cold embrace of the hardwood floors beside his bed. He stared up at the ceiling until he drifted so far into the trance of it, he hadn’t known when sleep claimed him again. The vibration that came again by morning, reminding him to open the curtains and put something in his stomach, was the first thing wake him gently in days. His throat was still blistered and aching from the night before. 

Bucky tried to delete the message, staring helplessly at the dozen left sitting above it. He couldn’t bring himself to do it in fear he’d never know your comfort again. 

It was selfish to hold onto the lingering thread between you, to allow himself the indulgence of your kindness and the desperate attempts to draw him back to the light. He knew they would fade soon enough, that you would grow tired and resentful of his silence. But until then, he’d cling to the last pieces he had of you. 

*** 

Bucky was half asleep on the couch when the front door of his apartment burst open. 

He groaned, massaging the kink in his neck as he slowly arose from the awkward angle to find Sam glaring at him from the kitchen, a bag of bagels in his hand and a coffee slammed onto the table. The door slowly latched back into the frame as Sam shoved the spare key into his pocket. 

“What in the _damn hell_ are you doing, Barnes?” Sam snapped, gesturing to the mess that had started to pile up around the apartment again. 

Junk mail lined most of the surfaces in the kitchen, the stove left touched for days. A pile of library books stood nestled by the end table in the living room, though the binding hadn’t been cracked in over a week on a single one. The curtains were drawn closed, shielding the sunlight from casting into the room. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Sam grumbled, picking up a tray of takeout from the night before Bucky had barely eaten a few bites out of. He tossed it in the trash. “I tried to give you space after what happened with Rollins, thinking you just needed some time, but then Y/n called and—” 

“She called you?” Bucky’s voice was raw with disuse. 

Sam narrowed his eyes, nodding. His face was calm, though Bucky could tell he was seething below the surface. “ _Of course,_ she called me, you fucking idiot. You haven’t returned a single message or bothered to pick up the damn phone in over a week. She’s worried about you, man. As she fucking should be, apparently.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw. “I’m fine.” 

Sam paused; hands planted on his hips. Bucky wavered under his stare, his gaze darting to the floor, then to the cold black screen on his phone. It hadn’t buzzed since he’d fallen asleep. His chest clenched, wondering if it was the last time. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Bucky tried again, though the crack in his voice betrayed him. 

The anger slipped from the hardened expression on Sam’s face. He loosened the tension in his shoulders, let his hands fall to his sides. 

“You can’t even convince yourself that’s true, Buck,” Sam sighed. He grabbed two bagels from the bag and sunk down onto the couch beside his friend. Wordlessly, he placed a bagel in Bucky’s hand and ordered him to eat. Bucky did his best to stomach it. 

They sat in silence together for as long as it took for the infomercial on the television to fade into the morning news. The bagel had dwindled down to a half circle and it was more than he’d eaten yesterday. Sam seemed satisfied with it, at least. 

“You know I can’t stop you if you’re insistent on wallowing in this pit alone,” Sam started, a careful glance in Bucky’s direction, “but there are people who want to help you out of it. Me. Steve.” He paused, swallowing. “Y/n.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw until his teeth drew blood from his cheek. 

“Y/n shouldn’t want a damn thing to do with me.” 

Sam loosed a heavy breath. “ _Y/n_ should be allowed to make that decision for herself.” 

Bucky shook his head. His eyes burned and he was too far into the claws of shame to care whether Sam saw his tears. “I’ll ruin her, Sam. I’ll… I’ll drag her down into this with me until she loses everything good in her, until I drain every ounce of light from her eyes, until I’ve bled her dry and she… she doesn’t deserve that. I’m trying to spare her. Don’t you get that?” 

Sam didn’t say a word as he started to gather the leftover pieces of the picked at bagel. He swept the crumbs into his palm, his expression unreadable. Bucky watched, a churning pit in his stomach, as Sam gathered his things in the kitchen and slung his jacket back over his shoulders. He paused only as he made his way to the door, a hand on the knob. 

“We have all lost people to this war, Bucky,” Sam said, a somberness in his voice Bucky wasn’t expecting. “We’ve all faced regret and suffered for it. You have to stop punishing yourself. It’ll kill you worse than a bullet could.” 

Bucky dropped his gaze, unable to stomach meeting his friend’s eye. 

“I’ll be back in a few days,” Sam sighed. “Don’t waste those bagels. They’re the good ones from the shop by the park.” He turned the knob, though he stopped short of unlatching the lock. “We’re not going to abandon you, Buck. You’re not going to push us away. Just… call when you’re ready to crawl out of this pit, okay?” 

Sam didn’t wait for Bucky’s answer before he slipped out the door. The silence hanging in his wake was enough for Bucky sink himself back into the couch. He didn’t understand that while this pit was of Bucky’s own making, it was one he deserved. The kindness of his friends and the lingering affection of woman who’s heart he’d broken would not change that. 

*** 

You brushed a hand over the dusty spine of a novel that must have been on the shelf for years, wondering why it was left untouched for so long. The cover was once bright in color, pleasant to look at with intricate designs and an inviting tone, but it was muted now, faded amongst the harsh press of sunlight and the absence of affection. Alone to weather and break. 

The weight of your phone hung heavy in your pocket. You debated checking it again for the third time in as many minutes, but you knew better than to expect a response after a week of silence. The last message you’d sent had been little more than a desperate plea, but your shame was of little consequence after you’d learned the state Bucky was holding himself in – barely eating, with dark circles under his eyes, sheltered in darkness, and sinking under the weight of his own guilt. 

**_Just come to book club,_ **you’d texted him a few hours earlier. **_Sam said you haven’t left your apartment in over a week. Please Bucky. I’ll keep my distance if that’s what you want._**

You wondered if you should feel embarrassed in your resignation. Distance was the last thing you wanted, but you were so terrified of losing him to the war inside his own mind, you’d be glad just to see his face again, to see him blatantly avoid you as long as he found even an ounce of comfort in an old routine and a hobby he’d once loved. 

You brushed tears from your eyes as you heard familiar footsteps approaching behind you. You slid the next book into the shelf. 

Sam appeared at your side, hands tucked into his pockets and a hunch in his shoulders. He offered you a short smile in greeting, though it quickly turned to one of condolence. You pressed your lips into a thin line, knowing what he was about to say. 

“The anniversary is coming up, you know.” 

You sighed, pulling the next book from your cart and examining the back. Focusing on the first three letters of the author’s last name, pushing Sam back a few steps to adjust your place along the aisle. You slid the book into the shelf. 

“I’m aware.” 

It wasn’t something you wanted to think about right now. Ever, actually. But especially now. 

Sam watched your expression for a moment, waiting for more, but when you turned back to the books on the cart, he exhaled a heavy breath instead. “We could do something? I know it hasn’t been easy since we lost him and given all that’s going on with Bucky—” 

“I’m okay, Sam. Really,” you pressed, pushing out a tight smile, though it clearly wasn’t fooling him. An image of Bucky in the Air Force t-shirt crossed your mind, how it was a little tight on his shoulders and the logo long faded in the wash. His face morphed into another’s – one of sandy blonde hair and a youthful smile. Guilt wrenched into your stomach. 

“You don’t have to put on a brave face for me, kid. He was my partner over there.” Sam set a hand over your own, stilling your movements before you could place another book to the shelf. He softened, easing in closer. “Doesn’t matter how much time has passed. It still hurts when I think about it. Losing him, it… it wasn’t easy on any of us.” 

You swallowed. “Yeah.” 

Sam stepped back. His hands returned to his pockets. “Have you told Bucky about him yet?” 

You scoffed, though you felt a sharp ache in your chest. “Bucky isn’t talking to me anymore, remember?” 

_Whatever this is… it’s over._

His words echoed as clear as they had the night he’d said them aloud – the uncharacteristic chill in his voice, the ache that lingered as if his every instinct were fighting against it. You tried to cast out the image of his back as it turned to you, of his footsteps as they paced over hardwood floors, of the latch of the door behind him as he left. It was still pristine in your mind – those moments. The shattered remains in your chest held onto it for safe keeping as if to punish you. 

You knew something had irrevocably shifted in him that night. You’d only heard glimpses of what that man had said – _Rollins,_ Sam informed you later. 

Even in the worst of it, at the accusations of what Bucky had faced overseas, you should have said something. You should have screamed. You should have launched yourself at the monster who dared break the man who held your heart and tore at him until he rescinded every word he said. 

Shock wasn’t a good enough excuse. Fear wasn’t either. 

You’d been shielded from the horrors of what happened over there long before Bucky. No one spoke of their time in uniform, of the things they’d done and the terrors they’d witnessed. Bucky was no exception. 

This wasn’t your world. You were just a woman who worked at the library, who had suffered a loss and found ways to mend her heart by spending time at the VA and running a ridiculous book club. Bucky’s pain could have swallowed you whole. 

But it didn’t mean you wouldn’t have waded the waters with him. That you wouldn’t have gladly sheltered some of that pain to ease the burden from his shoulders. That you wouldn’t have given your heart and soul to take away the guilt swarming through the blue of his eyes. 

You didn’t know what to do for him, what could possibly make that terrible night any easier. So you’d given him normalcy. You made him dinner he barely touched and put on a movie he’d been excited to watch all week. You curled up beside him on the couch even though he was stiff. You kissed his cheek, though his eyes darted to the door like he was searching for an escape. 

You’d hoped he only needed time; maybe a few hours of rest and he’d feel more like himself in the morning – that he might understand while he’d been pushed a few steps back, it didn’t mean he couldn’t walk forward again, your hand tucked protectively in his own, your steps alongside him. 

You were wrong. 

It felt like a lifeline had been snapped right in front of you, leaving you to an open freefall, to the cascading of the violent waters you wanted so desperately to save him from. 

The first time Sunday came around, part of you had hoped you’d still see him waiting for you at the bottom of the library steps; a nervous smile on his face, hand tucked into his pocket, army jacket hanging off his shoulders. He’d take your hand and walk with you on the back residential streets and tell you that he’d had a rough few days, but he was doing better now, that he missed you. 

He’d help you set up at book club and you’d rest your head against his lap as he read _The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue_ and the constant sinking in your stomach would fade away. 

But as you scanned the crowd, Bucky was nowhere to be seen. The walk to the VA was lonely, even with strangers bumping in your shoulders as you walked along the main roads. It was too quiet as you pushed the couches into position, as you waited for the others to arrive. You’d barely read past the first page in your book. 

You’d sent countless messages to him. Called him at least once a day just to hear his voicemail. He never responded. Not once. You started to wonder whether you were doing more harm than good. 

“I’ve tried, Sam,” you sighed, the mask of anger fading quicker than it dared to settle. “I don’t know what else to do.” 

“Yeah, well, Bucky’s got a nasty habit of shutting everyone out when things get tough,” Sam grumbled. 

“Thats what I don’t understand.” You leaned against the bookshelf, folding your arms protectively across your chest. “I thought things were going well. I thought he was starting to open up, you know? He seemed happy. I know _I_ was. I just… I don’t know what I did wrong…” 

_“Nothing,”_ Sam pressed, his hands resting on your shoulders, giving them a slight squeeze until you met his eye. “Hey, you did nothing wrong, okay? When you’ve seen the things we have, watched friends die less than a yard away… it does something to do. It sinks its claws in and it doesn’t let go until it’s drained you completely and Bucky… Bucky carries so much guilt from what happened over there. He always has. The guy thinks the whole world is on his shoulders.” 

Your heart sank, imagining the suffering he’d been through. A man so sweet and kind to have witnessed such horrors, to have experienced such pain. You thought of how he looked at himself in the reflective windowpanes at Luciana’s, how he kept his jacket draped over his shoulders even when he was sweltering underneath, how he’d made purposeful efforts to close his eyes when you’d first removed the protective layer from his body. 

This guilt he carried was embodied in the physical absence on his side. 

“Don’t let him push you away because he thinks he doesn’t deserve you. He’s a good man, he just… he forgets sometimes.” Sam sighed, a lingering sadness in his voice that was unusual for the charming, care-free man you knew him to be. 

You brushed at your eyes, catching the tears before they could fall. “How am I supposed to do that, Sam? He won’t even answer my calls.” 

Sam slumped against the bookshelf. His eyes strained with worry. “I… I don’t know.” 

*** 

Bucky had been tossing and turning all night. He’d barely slept the last two weeks, kept up under the emptiness left behind in your absence and the attempt to avoid the nightmares that waited for him when he closed his eyes, and it was starting to take a toll on his body. 

Dark circles hung under his eyes. His hair was messy and disheveled, greasy at the roots. He hadn’t changed out of his clothes in nearly three days and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything. He didn’t have the energy for it. 

But as exhaustion pulled him under, sinking under heavy lids and the weight of his mattress, Bucky was dragged by his feet into the darkness. 

– 

_The low rumbled of the jeep hummed in his ears under the overlay of an electric guitar on the radio. Valdez and Cali were in the front seats— Cali at the wheel as Valdez played an incredibly terrible rendition of the instrumental solo in_ Stairway to Heaven _on air guitar. Junior was at the backseat window, relentlessly flirting with Cali, as he usually did, and she tried to hide the smirk on her face when he struck out in nearly every go. Bucky often wondered if the guy would have better luck State-side when they finally went home._

_Sandwiched in the middle was the youngest of the team. Fresh out of high school, Peter Parker had enlisted to put himself through college. The kid was scrawny as all hell, but he could still carry the forty pounds worth of gear on his back without complaint. He had that sort of friendly looking face that often made it easier to communicate with the locals, too. It seemed to be his favorite part of the job._

_“How much longer to base, Cali?” Peter called over the sound of the speakers._

_“Why? You gotta whiz?” Valdez smirked over his shoulder as he doubled down on his air guitar. Peter grimaced, though he nodded reluctantly._

_“Won’t be too long from here, kid. A couple miles. Seven at most,” Cali replied. She eyed the rearview mirror where another five from their unit were following behind in an identical tan colored jeep. “Can’t go too fast or we’ll lose Thomson to the wilderness. Man still manages to go a steady 45 even without a speed limit.”_

_Bucky laughed, shaking his head as he turned to look out the window. Beyond the stretch of sand, he spotted a valley of greenery at the base of a small hill. If he looked close enough, he might have been able to see a few of the houses, maybe a few kids running around outside kicking around a ball between classes._

_But then, something caught his eye._

_The faint flicker of reflection at the top of the hill just beyond the town._

_“Cali, stop here,” Bucky ordered, keeping his focus on the flicker of light as he tapped on her shoulder. The jeep came to a steady stop and Bucky opened his side door, stepping out onto the dirt road. He squinted his eyes to avoid the sharp rays of the sun._

_“What is it, Sarge?” Junior called, narrowed eyes watching Bucky as he walked a few paces towards the hill._

_“I don’t know yet. Give me a second.”_

_The second jeep pulled up behind them, Thomson hanging out the side window. “What’s the hold up? Thought ya’ll said I was the slow one!”_

_A chorus of laughter erupted from inside his jeep._

_Bucky shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the reflective light he’d seen over the valley. It happened so quick; it could have been his imagination. Or, maybe it was just the exhaustion settling in. He hadn’t had a decent night of sleep or a full meal in days._

_And still – that low twist in his stomach remained._

_“Well, I’m going to pee,” Peter shrugged, climbing out of the jeep after Bucky and rushing over to the nearest bush. Still in plain view, but the kid required at least a semblance of privacy. You had to cling to normalcy like that around here._

_Bucky wiped the trail of sweat from his forehead, cracking his neck in an effort to ease the strain of the equipment on his back. He let the rifle hand loose on his side._

_“Guess it was nothing,” he mumbled to himself. He signaled a hand in the air for the jeeps to start up again and Thomson climbed back into his seat._

_“Hold up! I’m coming!” Peter shouted, rushing back towards the jeep._

_It happened so fast after that._

_The flicker of a reflection high over the valley. Valdez singing out of key along to the radio._

_A faint blip in the distance growing with every second. Junior sliding up between the front seats to sweet talk Cali._

_An echoing tunnel of wind. Cali pretended to be disinterested, arms folded over chest, laughing at every word Junior said with a flush in her cheeks._

_“Parker, wait!” Bucky shouted frantically, arm outstretched as he raced to grab the kid before it was too late and then –_

_Ringing in his ears so painful it felt like something was clawing at him from the inside of his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking a few times to gather his surroundings. As he propped himself up on his backpack, he found both jeeps lit aflame, burning down to their bones._

_“Cali!” Bucky called out, his voice hoarse. He couldn’t hear himself over the fire. “Valdez! Junior!”_

_Nothing._

_“Parker!”_

_He stumbled his way to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy and he nearly collapsed before his backpack fell down off his shoulders. He wavered, uneven, as he struggled to maintain his balance. It wasn’t until he noticed the stream of blood down his side, soaking into the sand and along his uniform that he dared to look at his left arm._

_He would have screamed if he had the voice for it. He sank down into the dirt, double vision setting in. His right hand reached across and touched over the wash of blood on his side. He vomited._

_Collapsing back into the sand, Bucky stared up at the sky. It was a beautiful shade of pale blue. Not a single cloud for miles. Not a bad sight for it to be his last._

_But then he heard a groan, breaking through the ringing and carrying over the roar of the flames – Parker laid face up several feet away. Bucky stared at the kid for a second, his heart pounding in a rush of adrenaline. He must have been far enough away from the blast to be thrown from its impact._

_Shit – he was so young. Parker wasn’t a kid that was meant to die out here. Fuck, no one was. Cali. Valdez. Junior. Thomson. Eight total from his unit. But Peter… Peter liked to talk to the locals._

_What had Cali said? A few miles to base?_

_He could make that, couldn’t he? For the kid?_

_Bucky gritted his teeth, yanked the belt out from around his waist and wrapped around what remained of his left arm. He clenched down on the edge of the belt in his teeth, pulling as tight as he could as a garbled scream ripped through him. It was meant to hurt, but he suspected the adrenaline had lessened it significantly. He shouldn’t even be on his feet right now._

_Bucky scrambled towards Peter, a trail of blood lining in his wake._

_“Parker! Parker, wake up!” he shouted to no avail. He shook the kid, slapped at his face, and still nothing. But he had a heartbeat. His chest was rising with each breath. Without the soot and the burns on his skin, it almost looked like he was asleep._

_“Okay, kid,” Bucky huffed, grabbing a firm hold of Peter’s arm and hulling him up and over his right shoulder until he hung limp over Bucky’s back. “I’ve got ya. Stay with me.”_

_He didn’t have much time, not knowing how quickly enforcements would arrive to pick the survivors off. If he remembered the map right, it would be about seven miles back to base. His legs would shake, threaten to give out, his vision would fall hazy, he’d collapse more than once, taste the copper in his tongue, but he’d make it._

_The trek back to base swept by in flashes, like a scene from a movie. Blood dripping down his arm and leaving a trail of red behind him. Struggling to hold Peter over his shoulder. Screaming out to a God who left him to die._

_When he crossed the barrier back into base, he was swarmed with medics, the first of which being directed to Peter at Bucky’s command. Then, the chain of command hovered over him. The rest of the unit rushing over in the distance, Jack Rollins leading the charge._

_“Where’s the rest of your unit, Sergeant?” the Colonel asked. His hands gripped into Bucky’s uniform. “Where are they!”_

_Bucky parted his lips to speak, but nothing came out. The Colonel asked again, this time, his spit landed on the side of Bucky’s face, frantic, and held off the medics as they attempted to stabilize him before he could mutter out an answer._

_Darkness closed in and suddenly, he was dragged up to the surface._

_–_

Bucky woke with an abrupt start, his heart pounding. The sheets were draped down around his waist, sweat glistening over his skin and sticking to the cotton of his t-shirt. He could still see the reflection of the sun over the valley, even with the moon hanging high in sky, casting a glow over Brooklyn. He could still smell the scorch of the fire the gasoline. He could feel the weight on his shoulder. The emptiness on his side. 

For a split second, he found himself reaching for the other side of the bed, hand sinking down onto the mattress before he realized what he was looking for – _who_ he was looking for. 

“Fuck!” 

Bucky threw himself out of bed, pacing back and forth in his room. He couldn’t sit still. Something was crawling through his veins. He wanted to scream. He was sweating. He was on fire. He rushed out into the living room, hoping that a change of scenery would do the trick, but he was seconds from passing out. 

Bucky reached behind him and gathered a firm hold of his t-shirt at the nape of his neck and tugged, ripping it off of him and throwing it across the room. It swiped a box off the edge of the desk at the corner of the room, its contents spilling out onto the floor. 

He froze, staring at the small reflection of bronze as it peered out from under a series of folded papers and photographs. Bucky bent down and picked up the medal, holding it in his grasp before he closed his fist around it. The edges punctured against his skin. Then, he threw it at the wall as hard as he could. 

It didn’t do much damage other than a small nick, but the release helped. It lessened the anvil on his chest and he picked up the lamp from the end table and slammed it onto the floor, glass shattering onto the hardwoods. 

He tore through his apartment like a tornado. Stack of mail scattered around the floor. Chairs upended. Books on the shelves spilled out along the rug, pages bent. He didn’t stop until he caught his breath again and even then, he was panting. His heart was still racing. Only now, his apartment resembled the chaos that swarmed inside his head. There was a relief in that, he supposed. 

Then, a knock at the door. 

He froze. It was almost four in the morning. 

Two more knocks. 

“Bucky, open the door!” 

He stumbled backward at the sound of your voice, tripping over the edge of the couch he’d turned on its side. 

You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to forget about him. Move on. He’d been cruel to you, ignoring your every attempt to comfort him. 

You should hate him. 

You should despise him. 

Yet, here you were. And it was clear you weren’t giving up on him as easily as he thought. 


	10. Ten

“Come on, Bucky! I know you’re in there!” 

You hit your fist on the door again. Perhaps you would have been more mindful of the the hour, but you’d heard glass shattering as you raced up the stairway just moments ago. You’d heard him shouting himself hoarse and heavy footsteps as he paced inside his apartment. You’d heard the cracks in his voice – the consumption of grief and fury and shame swallowing him whole. 

One of Bucky’s neighbors had rung Sam the first time Bucky’s screams could be heard through the thin apartment walls. It was the fifth time in as many nights and Sam promised Bucky would get it under control before they went to the landlord with noise complaints. He made no such promises that he would be the one to do it. 

An elderly woman in a nightgown peeped her head out into the hallway, scowling at you as you continued pounding on the door. Her beady eyes narrowed and you only spared her a moment’s glance before you returned to the door. 

“I’ll wake up the whole building! I swear to—” 

The door was pulled from under your fist. In its frame, stood a ghostly version of the man you knew. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. His hair was disheveled, blood dripped from a cut in his palm. Behind him, furniture was turned on its side, glass on the floor, magazines and unopened mail littering every surface. He’d torn his place apart. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You swallowed, forcing your voice stronger than you felt. “Sam called me.” 

Bucky’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “Of course, he did.” 

He paused only for a moment before he turned his back to you and walked inside the apartment. The door was left open in his wake and you took it as permission to enter. 

Cautiously, you took your first steps into his apartment. You tried to ignore the dust lining the curtains and the fleeting thought wondering when the last time he’d allowed the sun to touch his skin. The latch clicked behind you and you winced at the intrusion to the silence. 

Bucky meanwhile was staring out into the mess of his living room. His gaze rested on the couch turned on its side, then to the box of trinkets spilled on the floor by the mantel, then the broken glass by the window. His shoulders sagged; his expression unreadable. Slowly, he knelt down to the edge of the couch to flip it back on its legs. 

You watched him carefully, not uttering a word or daring to move closer until he finished. Once the couch was right side up again, he exhaled a tired breath and leaned against the edge. Exhaustion flickering through his eyes, though you suspected it had little to do with the exertion of moving furniture. 

As Bucky moved to throw the cushions back to the frame, you realized suddenly how he was dressed. Plaid blue pajama pants hung low on his waist. Bare feet prodding over hardwood floors too close to where broken shards of glass waited. His chest was exposed; skin glazed in the dim glow of moonlight as it peered through the small slit between the curtains. 

You could see his shoulder blades move along his back as he tensed. The lines of his spine and the dips along his hipbones. When he turned to face you again, your eyes were drawn to his shoulder and the frayed mess of scar tissue and burns. It was mesmerizing, the intricate patterns and the markings on his skin. Pink and red and faded with time. You wondered if it still hurt, if he could feel the nerve endings there or— 

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky’s. He was watching you, barely taking a breath. So vulnerable as he stood in front of you and he had no time to prepare for it. He probably didn’t realize how exposed he was until he noticed you staring. You’d imposed on his home, on his space. He couldn’t have known he’d be confronted with this tonight. 

All the effort it took for him to simply remove his jacket and now he was left standing before you without a single layer to protect him. 

You could see the doubt swimming behind his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to pretend like this connection between you was something he could easily push away, like he could let go of it without much of a second thought or a single word in his own defense, you could tell he was ripping himself apart at the seams, wondering whether you found him as repulsive as he saw himself to be. 

He shook his head, his features hardening over again. He gripped at the side of the couch until his knuckles turned white. 

“You should go home,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick as gravel. “Sam shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

“ _Shouldn’t have—?”_ You scoffed, stunned. _“_ Bucky, look at this place!” 

“I’m fine,” he replied flatly and you almost laughed if it weren’t for the deadpanned look upon his face. 

“You’re clearly _not_ fine!” You dared to take a step closer, aching to remind him of the lightness he carried weeks earlier, only for him to retreat. He rejected the contact on instinct – a flinch throughout his whole body. Your heart clenched as if a hand had slipped in past your ribs and squeezed until it burst. 

Your breath was tight in your lungs as you tried again, a little softer this time, “you’re _not_ fine, Bucky. You’ve kept yourself held up – alone – in this apartment for days on end. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. You’re not sleeping. You… You look like you’ve been through hell.” 

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight, you wondered if it might shatter. His gaze was unfocused, staring down at the floor by your feet. 

“You don’t have to put yourself thought this,” you eased, though the tension would not fade from his muscles. They remained locked as stone. You inched forward, a hand extending to him, an anchor to ground him. “Bucky, please… let me help you.” 

Something snapped – as sudden as a rubber band pulled taunt until its breaking point – and Bucky’s cold eyes met yours. 

_“There is NO helping me!”_ he roared, startling you enough to flinched back a few paces, your hand curling back against your chest protectively. He curled his shaking hand to a fist. “I _can’t_ escape this shit! Even when I thought I could—when things were finally _bearable_ again and I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning and I actually wanted to _live_ through the _fucking day_ — it all came back anyway! One word and I’m right back to where I started! I’m a fucking nightmare to be around! _Don’t you get that?!”_

His breaths were coming in ragged, too quick. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red. He hit his knuckles against the edge of the couch, on the wooden frame under the spine. Bucky barely took in a full breath.

“I can’t keep my shit together and I’m – I’m only going to hurt you, okay? You shouldn’t want _anything_ to do with this. I—I mean, look around you!” He kicked at the glass near his exposed feet, angry tears burning on his cheeks. “This is what my life looks like! Is this—is this what you want for yourself? You really want to sign up for _this?_ This—this fucking endless parade of night terrors and panic attacks and anxiety? _Huh?”_

He was brimming with pain. It was spilling over the surface and coating the floor. You were drowning in it and all you wanted to do was cross the room to him, to hold him, to soothe even an ounce of that suffering away because it would consume him whole if he let it. 

Bucky’s right hand was shaking so badly, tremors wouldn’t cease even as he clenched his fist. His body betrayed the stone he etched into his features. It was crumbling under the weight. 

“You really want to throw away your life for _that?_ For _me?”_ he spat as if the very idea itself carried venom in its implication, as if it were nothing more than a fool’s errand to spend a lifetime by his side, as if choosing him would be choosing to tie a noose around your neck. 

You’d never seen the evidence of his self-loathing before—not in full view and smothering the man you adored. He was expecting you to recoil, to run, to fight and argue and ultimately accept that you could never love a man so broken. It was a reaction he could wait a century for and still never find even a glimpse of hesitancy on your features. 

You steadied your breathing. Focused on the heart of the man standing in front of you, determined to push past the destructive fog he’d surrounded himself in. You took a step toward him, and this time, he did not run. 

“You’re not going to scare me away, Bucky.” 

Shame quickly spread through his body, replacing the threads of anger with something much crueler. His eyes fell to the floor, his chest rising unsteady and he stumbled back a few paces to give you space from the rage he wasn’t able to control. He looked about a decade younger as his features softened again, cowering back into the shadows. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you eased, daring another step. 

Bucky shook his head, reflective lines along his cheeks. His lower lip was chewed raw. 

“You don’t deserve this mess. You should—You should be with someone whole. Someone who can give you a better life than I can.” He could barely choke out the words.

“I don’t want someone else.” You took another step closer, determined to close the space between you. “I want you.” 

The tips of your fingers brushed against Bucky’s hand and a shiver cast up his spine. His eyes were transfixed on your touch as you slowly encased his hand in your own, easing the tension through his body and crumbling the stones in his chest with a gentle slide of your thumb against his palm. He started to sink against it, his whole body caving in to the very thing he’d been keeping at an arm’s length. He was suffering withdrawal. 

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Bucky whimpered, tears slipping past his eyes as he shut them tight, as if he could cast away his demons if he were blind to their shadows over his shoulder. 

You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down to the couch. He followed you easily, his body moving of your accord as if he were made of clay. When you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, you felt the slight tremble along his spine, the shakiness in his bones. His head laid against your heartbeat, his right arm snaking around your waist in fear of letting go. 

“I don’t need to know what happened. I don’t need the details,” you sighed against his ear. “I know _you._ I know you’re a good man, Bucky.” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute. The silence hung thick in the air. 

“What if I’m not?” 

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest. “Oh honey, please don’t say that.” 

“I lost _eight people_ , Y/n,” he muttered out, holding onto you a little tighter. You could feel his heart pounding as you raked your fingers through his hair, hoping to ease him if only a little. “Eight of my unit. My friends. If I… If I had said something sooner… We were sitting ducks and… and…” 

It was impossible to draw the pieces together. You couldn’t see the vivid image he held in his mind, but the details of that day weren’t necessary. He trusted you enough to outline the frame, to provide glimpses into the worst day of his life, even if they were messy and blurred. His body shook as he spoke, like maybe it was the first time he was saying the words aloud. 

You ran your fingers along his spine, drawing patterns along his shoulder blades. He shivered. 

The gentle glow of the moonlight caught the reflective edge of something on the floor. A medal. A Bronze Star. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering what Natasha had told you about its merit for exceptional bravery. 

“Were there any survivors?” 

Bucky held his breath and slowly he nodded. “He was… He was just a kid when it happened. Peter. I think… I think if it wasn’t for him, I would have died out there. I would have given up. Woulda been easy enough. My arm would have bled out pretty quick and the sky… the sky was so beautiful that day. I don’t know why I remember that. Not a cloud for miles. It would have been a nice last thing to see, you know? I would have been okay with that. But Peter… Peter was so young and I… I wanted to bring him home.” 

Tears were openly streaming down your face and you were thankful Bucky couldn’t see them as he laid against your chest. You tried to stifle the sob as it broke through. You kissed at his hairline again, holding him as tight as you could manage. 

“You saved his life,” you stressed, hoping he might be able to hear it. 

Bucky swallowed, tears brushing against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. “I lost eight others.” 

“Yes, you did.” There was no disputing that. Eight lives had been lost and he was grieving his friends, his team, blaming himself for each life he didn’t save. His body tensed and you were mindful to draw pressured lines along his back to ease the rigidity there. 

“You did everything you could, honey.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, I could have… I—I should have…” 

“Some things are just outside of your control.” 

“But I—” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Bucky froze, the recognition present in his body as he slowly lifted his head from your chest. “That’s….” He blinked a few times. “That’s what Sam always said. Those exact words.” 

You smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. You wiped your thumb along his cheekbone, drawing away the tracks of tears on his face. “Sam’s a smart guy.” 

Bucky searched your eyes and you could tell he was wondering how you’d come to know Sam’s mantras, how they’d become words you often repeated to yourself in your darkest moments, but he couldn’t quite find a way to ask. He pulled himself from your lap and propped himself up beside you, your hands intertwined. He squeezed it lightly and an aching smile pulled at your lips. 

"Sam used to have to write it on paper for me,” you admitted at the bittersweet memory. “I couldn’t say it to myself and he figured if I could read it in his writing, maybe I’d believe it if it were coming from him. After a while I started to say them out loud and hearing it my own voice… I don’t know. Sam kind of tricked me into healing, I guess.” 

You laughed under your breath and you felt Bucky ease slightly beside you. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reminder that he was there. You focused on the feel of his grip, the callouses on his palms and the warmth of his skin. Real and tangible. Your Bucky. 

“Sometimes I think Sam’s the only reason I survived after I lost Riley.” 

A slight pinch formed at Bucky’s brows, his eyes narrowing—a subtle sort of curiosity, though he waited patiently for you to continue. The silence didn’t seem to frighten him as much as he focused on you, his eyes darted to your lip as you dug in your teeth. 

You hadn’t let yourself be vulnerable next to Bucky before, afraid to take away from his own suffering in favor of your own. But you had known pain of a different kind. 

You knew what it was to crave comfort, to silently beg to be held. You knew how it felt to be rejected by a man too shattered to offer any piece of himself away without breaking apart entirely. 

The way Bucky was watching you, even through the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him in… it settled the twists of nerves in your stomach. His thumb traced at the edges of your palms, gentle sweeps to ease the tension away. His back straightened, a determination returning to his features, a sense of belonging – of purpose – in his comfort of you. 

“He was a pararescue in the Air Force,” you continued after a moment and a flash of realization crossed over Bucky’s features. You pressed out a sad sort of smile as you said, “you remind me of him a little.” 

You thought of the t-shirt you’d lent Bucky the evening you’d gotten caught in the storm together, how it clung to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders where broader than Riley’s had been. It was slightly bigger on your frame the next night you wore it. The logo had faded with constant washing, the soft green of the fabric muted to a grey. You’d worn it to sleep nearly every night for weeks after Riley left for his final tour, longer after he’d been killed. 

It was the most cherished thing you owned. Lending it to Bucky that night had taken a strength you hadn’t allowed for yourself in years. It brought back memories you’d left untouched and an ache in your chest you’d forgotten. But somewhere, under it all, it had released you. 

Riley would have liked Bucky, you thought, might have considered him a friend. You hoped he wouldn’t mind being the bridge that allowed you to move onto a new sense of peace, a new comfort. Even in Riley’s darkest moments, he only ever wanted you to be happy. You desperately hoped he meant that. 

“I loved him so much,” you told Bucky, your mouth feeling suddenly dry at the admission, “but the war had hurt him beyond the scars on his body. Most nights, he woke up screaming. I tried… I _tried_ to comfort him, to ground him back to what was real, but Riley was always so stubborn. He insisted he was fine, as if I didn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes or that he started drinking coffee in the evening before bed. He never told me what happened. I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me, that he was just doing what he could to hold himself together, but… the truth was, I lost Riley long before the officers showed up at his parents’ house.” 

Bucky nodded, watching you intently, though he didn’t say a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you kept your stare ahead, focusing on the imperfections laced into the brick of the fireplace across the room. You studied the curve of the cement, the nicks in the mantel, the divots of the stone. It was the first time you’d uttered Riley’s name in years. 

“I know you think I can’t handle this stuff, that it’s too much for me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been around someone with nightmares, Bucky, or panic attacks,” you said, memories flashing over Riley sinking to the floor with his hands pressed to his ears, tears streaming down his face, images of him turning his back on you and disappearing for days on end. You had hoped he’d open up in enough time, but he never did. He couldn’t, he’d said, or it would consume him whole. Even years later, you still wondered whether it was under the weight of his pain that he suffocated, not in the prospect of its release. 

“Riley struggled after his first tour,” you continued, a lump burning in your throat. “He… He came back different. He couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I could tell from the second he got home that he was itching to go back. Despite all the pain he endured, all the nightmares and the guilt, all he wanted to do was go back.” 

You glanced over at Bucky to find his jaw clenched in understanding. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling, for soldiers who waited so tirelessly to be reunited with family and friends to feel isolated and insignificant when they returned home, to want to return to the one place they felt like they belonged. 

“I tried to stop him,” you continued, wiping your eyes as unshed tears started to blur your vision. “I begged him to stay. He was out of his contract. He didn’t _need_ to go back but…” You sighed. Bucky’s hand gripped yours and you drew on the ounce of strength he was offering. “The worst part was that he _was_ better when he was over there. He was smiling again and laughing and making jokes like he used to. He was promising things for our future I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider before then. Being over there… it offered him something I never could and I was… I was glad for that. I was _thankful_ he’d gone. I was… _relieved_. I’d missed him so much and I was just happy he was himself again, even if he was a world away, even if it broke my heart. Seeing him happy again… it was enough.” 

You brushed at your eyes, the calloused touch of Bucky’s palm sliding along your jaw to gently wipe the wet from your cheek. His breathing was even again, the shakiness in his hands subsided. He waited for you to gather your thoughts again, not uttering a word in favor of the crickets chirping outside the window – unparalleled kindness in his patience. 

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, urging yourself to continue. Your eyes met Bucky’s, finding comfort in the warm shades of blue and the encouraging glimpse of a smile that barely rose at the edges of his mouth. 

“When Riley died, I blamed myself for a long time,” you said. “I told myself I could have stopped him from going back. I could have done more to convince him to stay, to get him the help he needed. I could have fought harder for him—for… for _us_. But Riley was his own person. He made his own choices and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stand in his way. Sam helped convince me of that.” 

Bucky’s face slacked. “That’s why you started volunteering at the VA.” 

You nodded. “Sam and Riley were partners. They had some sort of pact to take care of the other’s family if something happened. Sam held up his side of the bargain whether I liked it or not. He dragged me to the open house that year and I haven’t left since. I do it for Riley, but… I don’t know… I think I do it for myself, too.” 

You exhaled a heavy breath, turning away from the fireplace to face Bucky. His eyes weren’t as red as they had been, a frown no longer etched into his features. His gaze full, though heavy, and he watched you as if you carried the entire world in the palm of your hands. 

“So, you have to understand… I _can’t_ lose you to this war, too,” you choked out, squeezing at his hand to feel the firmness of it, to remind yourself that he was real and sitting right beside you and not an ocean away. “I won’t survive losing you, Bucky. I need you, okay? _Please_.” 

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he quickly held his tongue as he watched the tears slip down over your cheeks. Reflective in the dim light from the window. 

You took in a long breath, straightening your spine as you met his eye, your voice stronger than it had been since you started. “Not everyone comes home, but _you_ did. You survived and you wandered into my life and somehow, you made me believe in love again. Even on your worst days, just being near you is the best part of mine.” 

Bucky’s lips parted, a semblance of shock flashing over his eyes. You smiled at him through your tears, a hand sliding along the side of his cheek. He sighed against the touch of it, sinking into your embrace as if hadn’t ever expected to be held like that again. Your sweet Bucky, still so surprised that you could adore him as much as you did. 

“So, I will take your nightmares and your panic attacks,” you told him, smiling through the trembling in your lips. “I’ll take your bad days and share the weight you carry on your shoulders. I’ll take every ounce of shame and self-loathing you have until the day comes you can hardly feel it at all. I’ll take the empty side streets with you and we’ll drive so far out into the country side we’ll never hear a firework again.” 

Bucky chuckled at that, a smile pressing up along his cheek until you felt it under your palm. 

“I will take anything you throw at me,” you sighed, your thumb brushing over his lips, “as long as you’re mine. As long as I’m yours. That’s all I want, Bucky. It’s all I ask. Just you.” 

Bucky stared at you, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief on his features. You could see the hope burning behind his eyes, how badly he wanted to believe you, but doubt crept in and sunk its talons into his spine. 

His smile sank. “You’ve… you’ve already been through so much. I don’t know if I’m worth all that.” 

“You are.” You slid both hands along his cheeks, holding his gaze, until you leaned in closer, inch by inch, and pressed your lips to his forehead. Slow, lingering, you kissed his temples, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his jawline, pausing only when you found yourself a breath away from his lips. 

“ _You are,_ Bucky,” you said again, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks and catching a tear in its path. He bowed his head, a slight trembling in his jawline. It took everything you had not to collapse into him. 

“Honey, I promise you, it won’t always feel like this and I’ll convince you every day that you are _enough,_ if you need me to,” you told him, your voice shaking as you held back tears. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.” 

You leaned forward to kiss the crown of his head and his whole body seemed to sink in response, lightening, as if he’d let go of a boulder strapped upon his shoulders. His muscles softened, the tension slipping from his spine, until slowly, he began to lift his head, hair parting away from his eyes. Though they were strained and red, a crystalized ocean current stared back at you. 

You could feel the ease in his body taking over, a realization and a determination present in his stare, in his body. 

His lips parted, a steady breath in. “I love you.” 

*** 

It was the easiest thing he’d ever said; slipped from his lips as if the words had simply tumbled out on their own. Lost in how tenderly you touched him, how your hands never once left his body even as he held himself firm as stone, how you entrusted him with the most painful parts of yourself, how you gently coaxed him away from the shadows threatening to drag him back into a darkness he’d never recover from – he’d never been so certain of anything in his life. 

“I love you,” he said again, just wanting to hear it one more time. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into a smile. It ached from disuse, but it was a pleasant feeling. A kind one. 

He slipped his hand to rest on yours as it laid against his face and gently pulled it back just enough to kiss at your palm. It wasn’t often he found you at a loss for words, but it he didn’t mind the silence, not like he did before. He could still hear the slight hitch of surprise in your breath, the nervous laughter carrying in your exhale. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it were even possible to love you more than he did in that moment. 

“Really?” 

God, you were so beautiful when you looked at him like that. Starry eyed and so full of hope. 

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

You kissed him then, full on his mouth, arms thrown around his neck, and he had to stifle a laugh against your lips. He could feel the smile growing against him, laughing in between every kiss as the tears dried on your cheeks. 

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you beamed, drawing him in to kiss him again. 

He shouldn’t be surprised after all you’d said to him tonight, but it still fluttered in his chest, still caused butterflies to swarm in his stomach, still cast a blinding light deep into his heart that pushed out the remaining darkness lingering behind. His arm snaked around your back, holding you as tight against him as he could manage. He was breathless by the time you pulled away. 

“Will you stay?” he asked, suddenly feeling nervous as his eyes flickered over to the bedroom door. “I know it’s a mess out here, but—” 

Your lips were on his again and he swore he’d never talk again as long as you kept kissing him like that. Slowly, you began to stand from the couch, tugging him along with you. He pulled away from your lips just long enough to navigate his way to the bedroom, stepping over broken glass and the remnants of his nightmare on the living room floor. 

His bedroom was untouched, at least. The sheets were thrown haphazardly off the bed, but other than that, it was pristine in comparison to the damage he’d done out there. A shame tried to work its way deep into his chest, but he felt your hand slip into his, carefully drawing him close to the bed, and it released him to your care. 

His back bounced against the mattress in tune with the sweet sound of your laughter as you crawled over him. Thighs caging his hips, you straddled his waist and he looked up at you, certain he’d find a glimmering shine of a halo behind your head. The moonlight touched over your shoulders as you leaned down against him, kissing his lips. 

He’d missed you so much. Those two weeks left him in a hole he couldn’t possibly dig himself out of on his own. He was scraping at the bottom, nails filled with dirt, digging himself deeper and deeper until he could no longer see the sunlight as it touched over the surface. It wasn’t until you jumped down into the pit with him that he noticed there were notches in a wall once perfectly smooth, allowing him to crawl his way back up to the top. 

You leaned back a little, breathless, as your hands slid along his chest. It was the first time he’d been so exposed in front of you, the scars and burns on full display, and he was surprised that there was no hesitancy in your touch, no reluctance as you brushed your fingertips over the corners of the damage to his skin. But you paused, eyes flickering to him. 

“Can I?” 

Bucky sighed, his heart aching. You knew how difficult it was for him, for you to see this part of him. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket once in the first few weeks of knowing you. But now, he nodded eagerly, wanting to feel the tenderness with which you handled him upon the broken remains of his left side. 

Your hands slid up over his shoulder, brushing along the bumps and ridges in his skin. Hardened tissue and raised edges. The way you touched him, like he was something beautiful and adored, made his heart swell. It wasn’t until you leaned down to press a feathered kiss to his shoulder, just over the burn marks and the glimpse of what he’d lost, that he choked back tears. 

“Is it too much?” you asked, noticing the trembling in his lower lip, but he quickly shook his head. 

“It’s perfect,” he replied breathily, drawing you back to his lips. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve—” 

“Hush,” you warned, kissing him to cut him off, “don’t talk about the man I love like that. You deserve every ounce of love I can give you, you hear me?” 

He stared at you for a moment, studying the sincerity on your features until the gravity of what you said sank in, and slowly, he nodded. It would take time to believe that, but he hoped the more you said it, the easier it would come. He’d believe just about anything if it came from your voice. 

“Let me show you.” 

Bucky stilled; his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me show you, Bucky,” you asked again, your lips against his neck. He shivered. You sucked at his skin, drawing a map along his collarbone. You tongue licked at the indent by his neck. “Please.” 

When you met his eyes again, Bucky wondered if maybe you saw him with the same wonder and enchantment with which he saw you. It only took the slight tilt of a nod before you crossed your arms over your waist and slowly pulled your shirt up over your head. Your bra came next and Bucky shifted uncomfortably, realizing you were still straddling him, his hardening length prominent against your thigh. 

He stared up at you, studying over the curves of your breasts, the dips in your hips, untouched and exposed – so incredibly beautiful. 

He stopped himself as the thought entered his mind, the wondering whether he deserved such beauty in his life, wondering how he’d managed to trick the cruel twist of karma to allow him to love a woman like this – to love _you_ like this. 

He cast away the doubt, forcing it back to the shadows where it belonged. It was easier to do that when you smiled at him like that, like he was truly worth something. 

You laid down against his chest as his hand slid up along your spine, feeling for the slight dip in your back and the goosebumps following in his wake. You shivered under his touch and for the first time, Bucky remembered what it felt like to be _wanted_. 

He couldn’t stop kissing you, even as your hands slipped to his waistband. It was like you breathed new life back into him; reviving him with every touch. 

He helped you push down the band of his pants until you could easily drag it down his legs and drop it to the floor by his bed. It had been a long time since he was so vulnerable in front of a woman, but he didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you did. There was no ounce of judgement in your eyes, no cautious glance to his shoulder and the absence there. There was only love. 

You slipped the remaining clothes from your body and Bucky held his breath as you climbed over him again, straddling his waist, bare. 

Bucky was trembling as he reached for the drawer at his bedside. Blindly digging around for a box in the back of the drawer, he felt for the edge of foil wrapping. He brought it to his teeth, careful to rip the packaging, though as he held it in one hand, he let out a heavy sigh. 

“Would you…?” he asked, a blush creeping up into his cheeks. 

He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, given that you were both naked, but this was one of those things he couldn’t do for himself. It would have felt emasculating if it weren’t for how eagerly you nodded and how good it felt as you placed the condom on his tip and slowly rolled it down his base. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillow at the feeling, wondering how he was going to survive this. 

“You alright there, honey?” you called, giggling under your breath and, damn, if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, his hand sliding up along your waist, thumb brushing over your breast. He tried to catch the whimper as it left his lips to no avail. 

You smirked. “I think we’ve waited long enough. Don’t you think?” 

You sank down on him and he choked back a moan, embarrassingly loud, but it only seemed to spur you on as you rolled your hips, giving him little time to adjust. You were so tight, squeezing around him, and – _holy shit_ – when you dragged yourself against him, using him as you sought out the angle you were looking for, he’d never felt anything like it. 

He held his breath, focusing on the ceiling as he listened to the sweet sounds you made as your hands curled against his chest, hair falling down into your face. He knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted— hell, he would have stayed in you like this for hours if he could have – and it was taking near everything he had to hold out long enough for you to finish. 

Thankfully, you were just as riled up as he was – high on missing him, aching in the distance – and Bucky gasped as he felt your walls clench around him with the rushed circles between your legs. You picked up in pace and Bucky found himself meeting you half way, thrusting up into you as he braced himself on the headboard. 

“Oh God – _Bucky_ ,” you whimpered, your chest falling down to his, unable to hold yourself up. He kissed your neck, his hand sliding from around the wooden of the baseboard to grip your hips. 

If he could, he would have had a hand on your breast, teasing at the nipple, the other sliding down to the space between your bodies, rubbing circles on the nerves that left you so breathless you could hardly hold yourself up. But he was learning again, getting used to his body and his limits, and all he could focus on was holding you, guiding your hips, giving him leverage to fill you whole. 

Judging from the sounds you were making, your body molding like puddy against him, you didn’t mind at all. 

“I’m close,” you gasped, breath hot against his neck. “Ah, God, Bucky… I’m– I’m–” 

He could feel it before the words left your lips, the clench in your walls, the spasms in your muscles that left you weak against him, overstimulated as you pulled your hand away from your clit. Your cries gave him the permission he needed to let go, only a few more thrusts was all it took, and he shuttered as he came. 

Breathless, hardly able to control the laugh as it bubbled in his chest, Bucky could hardly believe that he started this night in the darkest place he’d been in months, only to end up lying here with you, so full of light and love he could hardly stand it. 

He didn’t let you go at first, just wanting to hold you a little longer. He felt the sweet touch of your lips as they trailed along his neck, smile brimming against his ear. Then slowly, you rolled off of him, gently removing the condom and tossing it to the bin. A shiver slipped up his spine at the touch. 

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Bucky confessed as you laid against his chest, curling up to his side. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I can’t stand to go another day without you.” 

You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing along the lines on his shoulder, touching over old scars and burns. You traced them as if they were simply lines on his body, just another piece of him worth loving, worth memorizing. He wondered if the next time he saw them in the mirror, he might remember this moment and see them for something more than the evidence of his loss that day. Maybe, he might see them the way you did – as evidence of his survival. 

“I love you,” you sighed and Bucky felt his heart swell; it grew and expanded so wide inside his chest, he wondered if his bones might bend to make room as it split him so lovely at the seams. 

“I love you, too.” He curled his arm tighter around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side. Over your shoulder, a cast of moonlight seeped in through the windows, touching over your skin, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He closed his eyes as sleep drew him near, comforted by the patterns you drew against his shoulder. 

When he fell asleep, he fell willingly – protected in your embrace, _safe,_ from the nightmares laying in wake.


	11. Epilogue

**T H R E E M O N T H S L A T E R**

Bucky often wondered what he could have done in his life to warrant the absolution you granted him. You carried it in your touch every time he felt the soft brush of your fingertips twisting into the hairs at the nape of his neck, reading alongside you in the empty library at the VA. It nestled into the gentle coax in your eyes when you looked at him across the room, the brightness within your smile as he walked closer, in your eagerness to see him. It sat within the warmth of your tones; the ease of comfort and the relief of being so close to you. 

It was like something clicked into place the moment he met you, like maybe he’d been lost and waiting for years, unknown and isolated to dark overcast of shadows in the absence of starlight, and you walked into his life with the presence of a setting sun. Warm, and still vibrant. Stunning. Ethereal. A glimpse of the Heavens themselves and yet, so generously offered without consequence. A gift of beauty and grace. 

Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn the love of a such a woman. He wasn’t sure he’d done anything at all to be worthy of something so kind. But he had you anyway. It wasn’t something you’d let him easily forget. 

After that night – the first night he knew what it was to make love you – he’d given up on the swift embrace of the current threatening to pull him back to muddied waters. He took the anchor as you handed it to him, keeping him steady, keeping him safe, and he affixed it to his body so he wouldn’t lose sight of the shoreline again. 

Curtains opened. Sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Bronze Star placed back in its box and tucked away somewhere secure. 

It still hurt to look at – a medal awarded to him for saving a life as he lost eight others – but when you’d picked it up off the floor, held it tight against your chest, tears springing in your eyes, he resolved to keep it. It was a symbol that he’d survived against all odds, that he saved a life when he could have easily given his to the desert. It brought him home. It gave him to you. 

Slowly, Bucky started to find the pieces of himself he’d left behind in the war. 

He started going to the gym with Steve again – 6am _sharp_ – though it took some time to adjust his balance learning to run and use the equipment in his new body. He hadn’t realized how skinny he’d gotten without the muscle mass, but the first time you noticed the lines on his stomach forming again and traced your fingers down the shadows along his abs, he’d nearly melted. 

Sam had him sorting papers down at the VA, paying him a steady wage. It wasn’t much, but it got him out of the apartment when you weren’t there, gave him a something to do. It helped that he was able to meet you at Luciana’s for lunch most days, though he spent most of his time just listening to you talk about the latest book you were featuring on the main display, content to watch how bright your eyes got, how your hands waved around and spilled crumbled of muffin onto the table. 

The best part of his day was waiting for you on the steps of the library. 

You’d emerge from behind the doors, bag stuffed with books, head down and sweater hanging heavy off your shoulders as you attempted to squeeze past a few pedestrians. You almost didn’t notice him there the first time he’d come back after the two weeks without you. 

Standing in his usual spot under a streetlamp, with the faint glow of a painted sunset over his shoulders, he watched as you finally caught sight of him and all he felt was just… _relief._

A smile crept up your lips, pushing high into your cheeks, wrinkling around your eyes – the damn near most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. You nearly dropped the books held tight in your hands as you skipped down the steps to him, rushing between tourist and jumping straight into his hold. Laughing through every kiss you planted on his cheeks, on his lips, and he held onto you as tight as he could. 

It was a strange feeling – to be so openly in love. 

The wandering eyes didn’t bother him anymore as long as your hand was nestled tightly in his own. He wasn’t ashamed to be showered in the affection you gave him as onlookers stared unabashedly in his direction, lingering on his left side a little too long. The attention of strangers meant nothing to him when you were beside him; smiling at him, laughing, dancing, reading. Your presence alone granted him a freedom he never expected to know again. 

*** 

It was a Sunday evening after book club when Tony Stark approached Bucky as he pushed the couch back into position. 

Bucky’s jacket was hanging over the back cushions; his short-sleeved t-shirt, light blue and soft upon his skin, exposing the absence on his left side without apology. The soft chill of the broken air conditioner unit above gently swayed at the exposed sleeve, tickling at the numbed scar tissue under the surface. 

The first time Bucky had removed his jacket during book club, he’d expected curious stares over the tops of bindings or murmurs between the pages, but no one seemed to pay attention, or frankly, care at all. 

A weight slipped off his shoulders in that moment as he folded the jacket to sit on the armrest of the couch. A breath held heavy in his lungs exhaled on a sigh of relief and he settled back into the comfort of worn out cushions and the crook of your hip at his thigh. The look in your eyes as you watched him pat down the jacket as it sat folded on the couch was enough to burn a flicker of pride in his chest. You’d kissed him sweetly though it didn’t last long – a lingering promise for more – but it was enough to keep his heart racing until he was home with you again. 

That day hadn’t magically cured him, as much as he wished that were true. It was still uncomfortable at times to be seen in public with the hushed whispers of well-meaning children and the narrowed glares of teenagers sipping Slurpees by street corners. There were still many days that he couldn’t stand to look himself in the mirror. Couldn’t so much as dare a glimpse in a fog dusted reflection as he stepped out of the shower in fear of catching sight of the discolored burns and the startling piece of him he’d left behind in the desert. 

That weight of shame and disdain wouldn’t disappear overnight, even with the compelling love of a woman. But his good days started to outnumber the bad ones, and that’s really all anyone can hope for, isn’t it? 

_A meaningful step,_ Sam had called it once. Didn’t seem so bad now that Bucky had a few in his wake. 

“I’ve got an offer for you, Barnes,” Stark had said, arms folded over his chest as he stood content to watch Bucky maneuvered the couch back into place himself. Bucky raised an eyebrow, waiting for Stark to continue. Tony shrugged, playing it off cool. “I’m sure you’re aware of my family’s stake in Stark Industries.” 

Bucky chuckled, picking up his jacket from the armrest. “Not too hard to draw that connection.” 

Tony pursed his lips, unamused by Bucky’s humor, though he continued. “We’ve been partnering with the team over at Wakanda Tech, and we’ve made a lot of progress in prosthetics within the last few years. I’m talking _fine motor skills_ here. Input directly into the nervous system. It’s going to earn every award on the market and then some.” 

Bucky paused, his spine coming up straight. 

When he looked at Tony, he could see his mouth moving, the faint muffle of his voice carrying above the air conditioner, but he couldn’t make out a single word he was saying, though Tony didn’t seem to notice. Hands waving about, rambling about technology Bucky couldn’t hope to wrap his head around, but Tony was convinced of its design. Bucky reached across his chest and felt for the edge of his left arm where it stopped, just at the hilt of his shoulder. 

A prosthetic. He’d never considered it before. Perhaps he didn’t allow himself to as he held himself chained to a lifetime of repentance in the burden of the shadows, but now as he stepped back into the warm shades of the sunlight again, amber glowing on his skin, he wondered what it would feel like to be able to hold you with both arms. 

“It’s a preliminary trial, perfectly safe, but we’re looking for volunteers,” Tony finished. He tilted his head to the side, seemingly noticing Bucky’s trance. “You interested, Sarge?” 

Bucky didn’t know what to say, but he took the business card as it was handed to him. The door to the library opened with the familiar squeak of rusted hinges, and Bucky quickly shoved the card into his back pocket before you could notice. Tony seemed to take the hint and quietly slipping out the door, only pausing in the frame to give a final wink in Bucky’s direction before he disappeared down the hall. 

“What was that all about?” you teased, smile wide on your face as you wrapped your arms around Bucky’s waist. You leaned up and pressed a kiss along his jawline. 

“You know Stark,” Bucky shrugged, “always digging for gossip.” 

You laughed enough that he could feel the vibration of it against his own chest. His favorite feeling, one that reminded him of all the light you brought back into his life. You’d told him you had pizza in your fridge at home and dragged him to the door without an ounce of resistance. He’d passed by Sam in his office on the way out, cheesy grin visible from behind his desk as he waved goodbye. 

The card sat heavy in the back pocket of his jeans for the rest of the evening. He wasn’t sure why he was keeping it from you. Maybe there was a part of him that feared the slip of disappointment over your features when the trial inevitably failed or his body rejected the technology Stark spoke of. He couldn’t stand to give you the kind of hope that came with the chance to hold you with both arms. 

But he started to wonder, as you curled up against his left side on the couch late into the evening and he felt the familiar ghostly movement of an arm that wasn’t there resting over your shoulders and fingers tracing patterns on your skin, if it was worth the risk. 

*** 

He met with Tony a week later to confirm the details of the trial. You were busy at work during the day and he only spent a few hours at the VA with Sam, so Bucky had plenty of time to sneak downtown to Stark Tower for the exams Tony needed him to complete. 

It took almost a month before Tony even showed him what the arm looked like. He needed to rebuild the muscle in his shoulder he’d lost and Tony’s team ended up spending days alone taking scans of his shoulder and studying the molecular tissue and the frayed nerves underneath. Tony had strutted out from his office carrying the box with a signature smirk on his face that reminded Bucky why Tony was as successful as he was. 

The arm was nothing like he’d imagined. Onyx in color, with golden details running along metal plates like amber coated veins – it looked like it might belong in an art gallery or branded solely to a battlefield. For every bit of beauty it possessed, Bucky was certain it carried as much deadly force. He was standing inside Stark Industries, wasn’t he? 

Tony insisted he had reformed the company since his own tour overseas. He’d seen the damage it caused and sought to make it right. There were no weapons attached, no extraordinary strength he could not wield on his own – it would only be Bucky. It would be an extension of himself, attached to his nerves as seamlessly as if it were flesh. He wouldn’t be able to feel the same, but it would transmit enough; enough to know how it felt to dip his fingers along the curve of your spine, to feel the soft caress of fabric in his hands, the brush of warmth on your cheeks. 

It was more than enough. It was everything. 

*** 

“It’s strange, Nat,” you said, phone tucked tight between your ear and your shoulder as you stirred the tomato sauce on the stove. “I mean, where’s he disappearing to after the VA? I came home early a few days last month to surprise him and he’s always out.” 

“Bucky’s not one to lie,” Natasha reasoned. 

“I know. But Sam said they’re always done by two. That’s like three hours unaccounted for. This is _Bucky_ we’re talking about Nat. He’s been so good lately but it’s not like he _loves_ venturing out in the city, especially by himself.” 

Natasha paused. You could hear her as she shifted in her position on the couch. “You don’t think he’s cheating on you…?” 

“Of course not!” you replied quickly, heart suddenly pounding. Natasha seemed relieved at your answer, not quite intent on chasing another friend’s conniving boyfriends around the city for a confession. You exhaled, a waft of the oregano and garlic slipping through your senses enough to calm your nerves. “It’s just strange. It’s not like him to be withholding, you know? We’ve kinda got an all cards on the table thing these days and I’m just worried he’s –” 

The familiar clicking of the broken lock on the apartment door started to rattle and you nearly dropped your phone into the sauce pan. 

“Nat, I’ll call you later,” you said quietly before hanging up and slipping your phone into your back pocket. You stood with your back to the stove, staring at the door as Bucky fiddled a few more times with the lock. You felt silly for feeling so nervous. You couldn’t even imagine a single reason for him to lie to you, to be sneaking around with malicious intent, so there was no need to worry. 

And yet – your heart sat in your throat until he opened the door. 

His eyes widened as he caught the first scent of homemade marinara sauce and the garlic bread in the oven and he froze half through the doorway. He pulled the door mostly shut, concealing half his body out to the hallway as his eyes slowly panned over the room and landed on you. 

“Y/n? What are you doing here?” he asked, hand gripping tight to the doorknob. 

You gestured to the stove, a rush of heat suddenly burning warm in your cheeks. “I wanted to surprise you. It’s… uh… it’s been six months already. Can you believe that?” 

Bucky’s lips parted, rendered into a silence that quickly made it clear that he didn’t make the connection of the date circled in red on the calendar hanging by the door. His eyes quickly darted to the scribbled drawing of a heart over the date and his whole body deflated in embarrassment. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you quickly covered, forcing out a laugh. “Just an excuse for homemade meatballs, right?” 

You turned back to the stove, offering Bucky some relief from your stare before the shame seeped deep into his cheeks. The sauce was bubbling on the edges and you turned down the heat a notch, stirring it gently with the edge of the wooden spoon. 

Behind you, you heard the door latch and then, careful footsteps approaching the kitchen. A hand set on your shoulder – soft and warm, inviting, kind in its embrace. You sighed, leaning against the counter as you set the wooden spoon on the rest. 

“It _is_ a big deal,” Bucky’s voice soothed, low and raspy, and it settled deep into your chest. “It’s important and it matters to me. _You_ matter to me. I’m sorry I’ve been busy lately.” 

You shook your head, still staring down at the tomato sauce a bay leaf crept up along the surface. “It’s nothing, Buck. Honest.” 

The questions you had for the time he kept secret from you hung heavy in the air and you knew Bucky could feel the weight of it, too. He took in a deep breath, though it sounded shallow, as if he were struggling to fill his lungs through the stones in his chest. 

“I, um, I have something I want to show you,” he started, tremors rippling in his tone and it took you by surprise. You narrowed your eyes, beginning to turn around when he stopped you. “Wait, just—Give me a second, okay? Don’t turn around yet.” 

You stayed still, though you were uncertain. You kept your stare on the cracks in the tiles along the wall above the stove. There were small dots of red against the white backsplash from the sauce. Bucky’s pacing stopped and you hoped that maybe he was allowing himself to relax again, reminding himself that it was only you standing in front of him, a woman who would take him in bruised and broken at a moment’s notice if he’d only sink into your embrace. 

He didn’t need to be afraid with you, and yet here he was – unable to meet your face in fear of whatever he was about to show you. He needed time to prepare himself and it was the anticipation that left the unpleasant feeling in your stomach. You trusted him, knew that whatever he was about to say could not ever amount to the transgressions Natasha suggested, but it didn’t still the sudden racing in your chest. 

“I know we had a deal,” Bucky started, exhaling a tense breath, “no more secrets, no pushing you away but… I had a good reason this time. I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me and—” 

“Disappointed?” you echoed, heart sinking. “Bucky I could never—” 

You started to peer over your shoulder, wanting to prove him wrong. 

“No, _wait,_ ” he urged before you could get a good look at him. “Please.” 

You nodded, turning back to the stove as he asked. You gripped at the edges of your sweatshirt in an effort to occupy your hands and you listened to Bucky fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket – another nervous tick of his. 

“It’s a good thing, I think,” he said, as if to convince himself as much as you. “It’ll never be what it’s supposed to. It won’t ever feel like it should but… it’s _something_. It’s as close to normal as it could ever get and I… I just want you to be happy. I want to not be looking over my shoulder thinking people are talking about me or _us_ or mumbling under their breath. I want to be able to hold you.” 

You could hear the emotion in his voice, how it wavered on every word and punctured straight into his gut. You hadn’t heard fear like that in a long time, not since the night he told you about the day he lost his arm. Any concern you had for what he was about to say washed down the sink. All you wanted was to ease his mind, to soothe the fear from his bones and remind him that you were wholly and completely _his._

Bucky stepped closer to you and you could vaguely make out his reflection in the shine of the microwave glass. He swallowed nervously and you felt the touch of something cold and solid upon your forearm. It slid down your arm, trailing goosebumps in its wake until it slipped into your hand – a notion so familiar and yet the hand in your own was not one you knew. 

Slowly, you glanced down to what Bucky had placed in your hand and a sudden gasp filled your lungs. You stumbled back, still holding onto to crystalized metal, to the fingers so perfectly intertwined in yours, to _him._ Your eyes were blown wide, free hand coming up to cover parted lips as you stared at him in shock. 

“It’s part of a trial. A prototype,” Bucky told you, still clearly anxious as you began examining the intricacies of the prosthetic. 

You brought the hand closer to your face, running your fingers along the joints and knuckles, sliding along the golden detailing between the plates as if they were rivers and valleys of the most beautiful design. 

He cleared his throat. “I only wanted to tell you if it was a sure thing. Didn’t want to get either of our hopes up if it wasn’t going to take. There’s, uh, there’s still a lot of work Stark needs to do with it, but… he said it’s mine when they’re done. If I want it…” 

You stared at him in awe, running your hand along his arms, mirroring one another, caressing over the fresh swell of muscle on his right and the cool surface of metal on his left. Your hand slipped under the thin fabric of his shirt and felt for the divide where the prosthetic met his flesh and the hardened scar tissue there. Seamless. Stunning. 

“It’s incredible, Bucky,” you said as a smile pulled so wide at your cheeks, tears sprang into your eyes. “It’s beautiful.” 

His should dipped, the tension quickly fading from his muscle. “Really?” 

You nodded, unable to let go of him. You took his hands in your own, amazed by the contrast in heat, in pressure, in touch, and still exceptionally _him._ You guided them to cage around your back, pulling yourself closer to his chest as he held you with both arms. 

“How does it feel?” you asked, leaning into the crook of his neck. 

He sighed as he wrapped his arms tighter around you, as if the weight of an entire year sat within his lungs and he could finally catch his first full breath. He wavered so long under the ocean surface, gasping for air, barely able to break past the surface, and suddenly, he was crawling up the coastline, sand under his feet and the sticky sweet touch of salt water in the air. Relief poured out of him as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“It feels… _right,_ ” he said simply and could feel his hands as they explored along your spine, drawing shivers in their wake. He gently pulled you back, enough that he could set his hands against the sides of your face. There were tears in his eyes as he smiled at you, slowly bringing you to his lips. 

Bucky’s kiss was always warm, always filled with a tenderness and a longing untouched by anything else, but _this_ was different. The contrast of the warmth of his right hand, the slight chill in his left, the flesh to metal – it was breathtaking. It was still _him,_ as much of him as he could give you. It was how he’d wanted to hold you, to _touch you_ , from the start, but he hadn’t had a way. This gave him that chance. 

“It’s, uh,” he sighed, pulling away from your lips to rest his forehead to yours, “it’s a little heavy though. Tony’s still working out the kinks.” 

You laughed, bringing a smile to his face as you gently slipped from his hold. Your fingertips danced at the hem of his shirt before he helped you slide it up over his head. You paused as you caught sight of the prosthetic as it met his shoulder and you ran your fingers along the divide. 

“Let’s take it off then,” you offered as you felt for the notch along his shoulder blade to dislodge it from his arm. 

The way Bucky looked at you just then, you wondered if he just might burst. If you knew Bucky – and you knew him quite well – you would have imagined perhaps he was surprised you would even suggest he return to a body without the new arm. That it may shock him you might prefer the broken, though mended, version of himself to the new and improved Stark Industries prototype. Even on his good days, he still struggled to convince himself he was worthy of your love and affection. You didn’t hesitate to him. 

You helped him slide the arm from his shoulder, a little stunned yourself at the weight of it, as you placed it on the couch. When you stood up to face him again, he’d lost a bit of that confidence, his eyes captured by the floor. 

“Still just me,” he mumbled through a forced laugh and it nearly splintered your heart in half. 

“Hey, _this_ is the Bucky I fell in love with, remember?” you pressed, stepping close enough to wrap your arms around his waist. “I don’t need you to change a single thing about yourself – including your arm. I want you to feel good, honey. I want you to feel like yourself and if that’s what helps, then I’m all for it.” 

He relaxed a little at that, starting to part his lips, but you weren’t done. You leaned up to press a careful kiss to his jaw line. 

“I am perfectly content on loving you just the way you are, Bucky Barnes.” 

He didn’t say anything in response, but you could feel the doubt leave him in an instant. He sank into your hold, wrapping his right arm around your shoulders and tucking his face to your neck. His breath was hot on your skin, the vibration of the soft hum in his chest soothing against your own. He didn’t need to say anything. You could feel his relief, his love, in his touch alone. 

*** 

There was a certain element of freedom that came with the prosthetic Tony created for him. Bucky began to carry a confidence with him he didn’t have for more than a year after his final tour. He was laughing and smiling out in public, dragging you down busy streets to get to the ice cream shop in record time, dancing with you on the sidewalks under the cover of moonlight to the live music outside the jazz bar. It was like he was himself again, a version of the man you’d only captured glimpses of before on display in full view and – _God_ – he was stunning. 

“You know it’s not because of the arm, right?” Sam suggested through a sly smile as the two of you watched Bucky slip his jacket off his shoulders to show Steve the extent of the prosthetic’s ability. Hell, he was practically glowing as he showed off the arm and Steve was raving about all the new machines he could use at the gym. 

You shook your head, content to watch the unending smile on Bucky’s face as Scott and Clint walked over to check it out. You’d never seen him without such a weight on his shoulders, so carefree and eager, unafraid to be under the eye of his friends and strangers across the room. 

“It makes him feel like himself again,” you challenged, only for Sam to scoff. He rolled his eyes, pursing his lips playfully. 

“Maybe the fancy new tech’s a part of it,” he conceded begrudgingly, “but that man sure as hell started to look like the guy I knew long before Stark got involved.” The smirk upon Sam’s face was wide enough to etch into the dimples on his cheeks when you looked at him. “I’d say it has a lot more to do with the love of a good woman who helped him let go of all that baggage he was carrying around.” 

You stared at him for a moment, though he didn’t relent, and your lips parted to argue, to insist that Bucky was capable of healing himself without your help, when you caught the eye of ocean blue from across the room. 

Your name passed over his lips as he spoke to Steve, a glimmer of sun reflecting upon the crest of waves in his eyes as he smiled at you. You couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but you could hear Sam chuckling to himself, proving his own damn point, because Bucky was looking at you like you’d gripped his hand on the bottom of a trench and hulled him to the surface, as if you were an angel with a glowing halo behind you and a choir in your wake. 

His happiness was the best part of you. The lightness in his steps. The freedom in his movement. The absence of fear and shame. Bucky was healing right in front of your eyes. Your love was finding his was home again. 

*** 

“It’s late, sweetheart,” Bucky whined, “let’s go home.” 

“I think you mean, _‘it’s early,_ ’” you grinned, tugging on his hand as you led him to the park bench at the edge of the park. Sitting under the shadow of an oak tree overlooking the pond; the same bench you’d held his hand for the first time, crossing over the trenches and into his embrace. 

He was still wearing the suit from the gala at Stark Tower celebrating the release of the new prosthetics to market. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, tie hanging loose around his neck and stray glitter and confetti on his shoulders. A few speckled into his hair in gold and silver and you couldn’t help but laugh as you pinched a piece of shimmery confetti from his hairline. He chuckled as you blew it into the wind. 

“We’ve been up all night,” he tried again, sleep laced into his voice as he slumped down onto the bench. You slid in beside him, close enough to smell the orange peel on his breath from the old fashioned he’d sipped on before you left. 

When you’d finally departed from the gala, Natasha and Steve were still hanging over the bar, talking for what must have been at least three hours. Sam was still leading a dangerous game of cards with shots at the center. Tony was insistent he could win the unwinnable game and was nearly comatose when you made your exit. Lang was fast asleep on the floor and Barton was dancing by himself to Billy Joel on the radio. Everyone else had gone home hours before. 

“But the sun’s rising, Bucky!” you pouted, tapping on his shoulder to get him to turn and face the baby soft paint of colors in the sky; blues and pinks, orange nestled between. He twisted on the bench to follow your gaze, stilling at the gentle touch of brushstrokes in the sun’s wake. 

“Pretty, huh?” you encouraged, more enamored by his smile than the sky itself. 

He shrugged, unimpressed as he settled his back to the bench. “I’ve always preferred the sunset.” 

“The sunset?” you questioned, surprised that anyone had a true preference between two of nature’s most generous gifts. “Why?” 

He looked at you for a moment, a smile lifting sweetly at his cheeks, like he was remembering something fondly. He always looked at you that way, you realized, like he was memorizing each and every moment. 

“Reminds me of you,” he said simply, as if it were so plainly true. He pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose before resuming his tracing on your hand, content just to sit beside you. 

You stared at him, confused, though he didn’t say more. Instead, he swung his left arm around your shoulders, curling you up closer to his side. The metal was hard under the sleeve of his jacket, though it carried a sort of warmth with it, warmed by Bucky’s body heat against the chill of a snowless, winter night. 

You wondered then, as his right hand played mindlessly with your own, drawing over the lines on your palm, if maybe he’d spent much of the time you’d know him believing himself to be akin to the darkness of the night sky. Settled in shadows, lost to the sun, with only glimpses of hope speckled into the stars and the distant reflection on the moon. 

You wondered, if maybe as a sunset touched its colors against the horizon, as it soothed the harsh transition from day to night, if he held you in the same regard – gently easing color back into his life, blending sunlight into darkness in vibrant shades. 

Bucky still had his demons. He had darkness in his wake and a clutch of shadows to his ankles, but he was still made of something beautiful. Even in the months you first knew him, he was still a skyline in the evening overlooking the Atlantic. He was still made of constellations and Northern Lights and starry skies – even if it didn’t see it himself. 

These days though, he didn’t carry that same heaviness he used to. He still had his bad days, like anyone else, but they were infrequent and far between. His good moments outnumbered the bad. He caught a glimpse of sunlight over his shoulder and raced towards it at full force. Until his legs were weak and wobbling and still, he pressed on. 

He found full-time work with Sam through the VA, mentoring newly discharged veterans with significant physical injuries. When he could, he still waited for you on the steps of the Brooklyn Library, flowers in hand, waiting anxiously to see the next book you brought home for him. He started going to the VA support group once a month, and though it took him a while, he eventually talked about the day he lost eight of his friends. Sam was practically beaming with pride. 

He turned a new page with every morning. Sunlight on his skin when he held your hand walking down a busy sidewalk. Pink clouds and a glimmer peeking out from beyond the horizon as he picked up coffee at Luciana’s before work and moonlight fading into soft blue as he kissed you goodbye. Gently casting out the darkness in waves of pastels as he chose life again, as he chose love and healing and strength. 

He was soft and beautiful. Light and airy. A new beginning. An absolution in its ascent. 

A sunrise. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end ❤️ I do plan to post a few bonus drabbles in the coming weeks, so keep an eye out!


	12. Bonus Chapter: The Kid from Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus drabble: Bucky and Y/n take a trip to Queens in search of the boy Bucky saved on the day that changed his life

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

Bucky sank further into the backseat of the taxi, rubbing his palm against his jeans as he turned to look out the window. He was nervous, more anxious than you’d seen him in months. His eyes were unfocused as he tried to count the windows on the buildings, though they were little more than a blur. You curled up closer to his side, wrapping your arms tightly around his bicep. 

“He’ll want to see you, Bucky,” you told him, brushing the hair away from his face. He was tense, firm muscle under your grip. “Did you know he lived so close by?” 

Bucky shook his head as the taxi crossed the border into Queens. “It never came up.” 

It was a Thursday evening when Bucky overheard one of the older guys down at the VA talking about a kid named Parker. He’d nearly frozen dead in his tracks, enough that his grip pulled you to an abrupt stop in the middle of the lobby, squeezing your hand so tight it began to ache. He was as rigid as you’d seen him the day Rollins stormed in the front door and nearly destroyed everything Bucky had built for himself. Only, this was different. 

Bucky didn’t look as though he wanted to retreat, to escape out the back door and run until his feet couldn’t carry him. He was curious, a hitch in his breath, eyes glued to the men as they spoke fondly of a young kid who often hung around the VA in Queens, fixing up the computers with broken tech he’d swiped out of dumpsters and garbage bins. 

It took a full five minutes before you could gather his attention again. He was too focused on listening to the men speak amongst themselves as he stood just on the edge of the room at a careful distance. His lips were curved into a frown, but his eyes were a little lost – sunken, sad. The dots were there on the wall, the red tape drawn along the board from Bucky’s time in Afghanistan to the kid he saved on the worst day of his life. You could tell by the stunned look on his face he never once considered the possibility of running into the boy again. 

You carefully withdrew Bucky back to the kitchens where you sat him down and forced coffee on him. He was painfully quiet, his mind clearly running through every worst case scenario. While he was distracted and stirring sugar into his mug, you stepped outside to ask whether the men knew more about where Parker was staying. 

It was Bucky’s idea to go find the kid, though it took him nearly a month to come around. He battled with himself for weeks about it; pacing along the living room, murmuring to himself about whether anyone from his old unit would even tolerate seeing his face after that day. He’d had enough experience with Rollins to tarnish whatever strand of hope he held onto that Parker might be an exception. Even though he saved the kid’s life, he still blamed himself for the loss of eight of their friends. He wondered if Parker did, too. 

“Maybe we should go back,” Bucky started again, his hand quivering a little as you gripped it tightly. Excuses began to pile up, the dozens he’d considered since the moment he stepped into the back of the taxi. Maybe you would have let him back out if it weren’t for the cab rolling up to a steady stop in front of an old, brick townhouse with broken shutters and a baseball bat lying on the stoop. 

You quickly paid the driver before slipping out the door, Bucky in tow. He stared up at the apartment for a while before either of you moved. The taxi was long gone, the gentle glow of a sunset just beyond the skyline. You could smell the fresh scent of oregano and garlic wafting from the open window in the living room, giving way to the garlic bread toasting in the oven. 

“Bucky? You ready?” 

He clenched his jaw, a deep breath filling his lungs as he started to shake his head. Bucky turned away from the door, facing you as you gripped his hand a little tighter. 

“I haven’t seen him since it happened,” he admitted, shame seeping into his voice. “I don’t know if he would even—” 

“Sergeant Barnes?” 

Bucky took a few steps back as he looked up to find Peter standing on the doorstep of the apartment. He seemed to be surprised the boy had recognized him at all. It had almost been two years since they last saw one another, but Bucky had changed significantly from the picture you’d seen on Sam’s desk. His hair was longer now as it hung loose down by his shoulders, a scruff of beard covering his cheeks. He dressed in loose clothing and the absence of a limb in his left sleeve did not go unnoticed. He shifted himself to put his right side forward. 

“Peter,” Bucky acknowledged tensely. 

Peter bounded down the steps in feather light skips until he stood in front of Bucky. A smile lifted high into his cheeks as he looked Bucky over, a hand swiping through his untamed hair. He started to laugh, almost as if his body couldn’t quite contain the excitement, or maybe it was the nerves. His eyes flickered briefly over to you, though they didn’t last long. His smile didn’t falter for even a second. 

But Bucky didn’t say a word. He held his ground, stone as a statue. Peter swallowed, a little nervous now in the silence. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Peter asked, his back straightening and for a brief moment you could imagine what he would look like in a military uniform, in beige camo and forty pounds of equipment on his back. He went from a kid to a man in a matter of seconds. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “Just checking in on you.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed. It didn’t seem like an answer he was expecting. 

“Meant to do this a long time ago,” Bucky exhaled, scratching at the back of his neck, “just wasn’t sure if you’d want to—I mean, after what happened that day—” 

“You mean when you carried me seven miles through open terrain while you were bleeding out?” 

Bucky froze. You tried not to let the shock manifest on your features. It was the first time you’d even gotten a glimpse of what happened to Bucky on that day outside of his incoherent mumbling in his sleep. You glanced down to find Bucky’s hand trembling ever so slightly and you quickly slipped your fingers against his, giving him an anchor to hold onto. 

Peter smiled, though it was softer than before. “Sir, you saved my life. I never got a chance to thank you for that.” 

As Bucky looked at Peter, you could tell there was more he wanted to say. Whether it was to argue over how much of that praise he deserved or to remind the kid that he also lost eight others from his unit in the same attack, you weren’t sure. But before Bucky could part his lips, a woman appeared in the doorway of the apartment; long brown hair, wire rimmed glasses, and a wooden spoon stained in marinara in her grip. 

“Sauce is getting cold, Peter!” she called, pointing to the kitchen with the end of the spoon. 

“Sorry, Aunt May.” Peter grimaced, a flush of pink in his cheeks. 

She narrowed her eyes upon Bucky, glancing over the army jacket hung over his shoulders and his last name woven into the emblem over the right chest. Her stance slacked. “Oh my God.” 

She raced down the stairs. Before Bucky could get a word in, she threw her arms around his shoulders. He stumbled backwards a few paces, his hand slipping from yours as he stabilized her with a hand to her spine. He was rigid for only a moment, the physical contact of strangers not something he was entirely welcome to, though when you heard her whispering _‘thank you, thank you, thank you,’_ as she held onto him, he started to relax. 

He brought her nephew home. 

“Stay for dinner,” she insisted as she finally released him. “There’s plenty.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Bucky mumbled, a quick glance at you. 

“Your girlfriend is more than welcome, too,” May said, a wink in your direction, before she headed back up the stairs and into the apartment. The smell of garlic bread drifted out into the street and you could practically hear Bucky’s stomach growling. 

“I talked to Pietro recently,” Peter offered, a small piece of bait to draw Bucky inside as he began to ascend up the stairs. “He said he saw Rollins in county lockup last week.” 

Bucky’s ears perked up, intrigued. Pietro must have been another from their unit and it seemed Bucky wasn’t the only one with a distain for Jack Rollins. He glanced over at you, almost as if asking for permission, and you gave him a smile in return, nudging him towards the door. 

“Alright, alright,” Bucky conceded, a slight laugh in his tone. You followed him up the stairs; another stone loose from the baggage chained at his feet. 


	13. Bonus Chapter: Losing Riley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before she met Bucky, Y/n’s world was shattered. Sam was the common thread that helped her pick up the pieces again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel into Y/n's life before Bucky. Enjoy!

You woke to cold sheets. A hand slid over to the left side of an empty bed and your heart clenched. The startling realization settled in each morning as the distant glow of the sunrise peered through the curtains – Riley was still an ocean away and you were still emphatically alone. 

But you were determined to make the most of the day, even if Riley wasn’t there to spend it with you. It was his mother’s birthday whether he was stateside or not and you were insistent not to let the ocean waters sweep you under in his absence. So, you pressed on a smile and dragged your feet to the bathroom to tame your hair and dry your eyes. His family would be expecting you and one of your homemade cakes by the evening. 

You dared a glance at yourself in the mirror, clad only in the US Air Force t-shirt Riley had left behind. It was rich in army green color and the logo stood bright against your chest. You wondered how much wear the shirt could handle before it started to fade. It had lost Riley’s scent after you’d worn it for a week straight, the lingering glimpses of his presence dimming night by night. You could only hope it wouldn’t shrink in the wash. 

You spent the day perfecting the cake his parents had grown to crave; three-tiered and coated in layers of chocolate frosting. Billy Joel sang on the radio and you mumbled your way through the verses of _We Didn’t Start the Fire_ to distract yourself from imagining Riley seated at the countertop, watching you with love struck smirk on his face and a dab of frosting at the corner of his lips. The book on the counter held a gentle layer of flour on the pages. It kept you company until the timer rang. 

The dress you wore was one you’d purchased with the intent to wear for a date night when Riley came home after his first tour. Though it was red in color, it was not striking or bold – instead, it was soft, almost muted, and it carried a sort of gentle effervescence to it. Modest but charming. You’d hoped it would make him smile. You hadn’t counted on how the war stealing his ability to do so. 

It was the first time you wore the dress since you bought it. Maybe you’d ask his mother to take a picture of you with the cake to send to him. He might like that. He seemed to be himself more when he was away than when he was home in your arms these days. 

You had the cab drop you at the end of the driveway. It was long enough to catch the glow of Christmas lights still draped around the trees outside and hidden under layers of snow, despite the fact that it was well into January. The suburbs were so quiet compared to the city; you’d forgotten how much you enjoyed spending time at his parent’s house. They’d welcomed you to their table, even in the months Riley was overseas. It was a burden you shared together – to be left behind. 

You’d only made it halfway up the driveway when you noticed the two men standing at the porch. They were dressed in formal uniforms, white hats held down by their hearts. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped moving until the snow started to soak into your shoes. It piled on the pointed toes of your heels. 

Riley’s mother stood in the open-door way, a vacant look upon her face. Her husband was at her side, shaking his head as he struggled to grab onto his wife before she let out a wail that echoed so painfully, birds scattered from nearby trees. 

Her knees gave way from under her as she fell to the ground in sobs. The two men in uniform did their best to comfort her, only to be shoved away. They stood back and watched a mother grieve her only son at a respectful distance. 

“Y/n?” 

Your hands were shaking. The cake tray had slipped from your fingers and fell into the snow. A mess of sweet chocolate amongst pavement and ice. The voice called your name again, concerned, frantic, and you could only vaguely make out a blurred figure racing towards you. 

Everything around you tunneled, your knees weakening as you struggled to fight against the ice under your heels and the weight suddenly barreling down on your shoulders. All you could hear was the screams of Riley’s mother as she held onto her husband, unable to move from the comfort of the ground. 

“Y/n, come with me,” the voice eased and you looked up to find Sam Wilson standing a few paces ahead of you dressed in his formal Air Force blues, gold wings on his shoulder and a series of colorful pins on his left breast. He held out a hand to you. 

“Let’s go inside, okay?” he tried again but you shook your head, eyes darting back to Riley’s mother. 

You tried to take in another breath but found it shallow, as if your lungs had collapsed beside your heart in mutual surrender. 

“You’re having a panic attack,” Sam told you calmly. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Focus on my voice.” 

You nodded quickly, tears burning in your eyes, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the shattered remains in your chest or the light headedness pulling your vision under. Sam bent down and grabbed a handful of snow. 

“Here. Feel this,” he ordered evenly, placing the snow in your bare hand. He stepped back, shaking out his gloves. “It’s cold, right?” 

_Yes,_ you tried to say though the word didn’t quite leave your lips. It stung, but there was a comfort in it. You watched as it melted in your palm, your skin burning from where it had been. 

“Smells like Christmas trees out here, doesn’t it?” Sam added, taking in a deep breath. He smiled. “Reminds me of the tree farms I used to go to with my dad every year growing up.” 

You followed his lead, taking in as much of a breath as your body would allow. He was right, it did smell like pines. Riley’s family planted a few along their property line because his mother loved Christmas so much. It smelled like Fraser and Balsam Fir all year round. 

You concentrated on the smell of the trees, the chocolate that had scattered into the snow in clumps of frosting and cake; the sound of Sam’s voice, of Riley’s mother’s cries; the feel of the chill on your skin and the snow in your hand. You focused until you could draw in a full breath enough to make sense of the destruction around you. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” you asked, voice trembling on the verge of tears. 

Sam’s shoulders fell, a terrible longing pressed over his features. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.” 

Despite your efforts, your knees buckled in mirror to Riley’s mother. Sam caught you before you could hit the ground, his arms encasing around you as your body fought the violent tremors shaking through you. You cried against his jacket, as the snow built upon your shoulders and wet your hair. You cried until there was little else your body could give. 

*** 

You barely remembered the funeral. 

A folded flag had been placed in the lap of Riley’s mother as she sobbed. A casket had been lowered into the ground. Guns fired in salute and you flinched at each one as they echoed against the stormy grey skies. Sam held your hand through the entire ceremony, squeezing it hard enough to leave a mark when it looked like you were teetering on the edge of an endless void. He stayed on your couch that night and pretended not to hear as you cried yourself to sleep. 

There was an emptiness that took hold of you when Riley left for his first tour, but there was still a lingering hope. You’d managed to hold onto the image of a man at war and his woman waiting for him to return. He wrote often and you kept each letter in a shoe box under the bed. It was a script of a movie you’d learned to follow – the scraps of love you could grasp from the shores of the Atlantic. 

When he came home, he was hollow. He wasn’t the man you’d kissed goodbye with a cheesy, hopeful grin on his face. He’d lost the spark behind his eye and the glow in his skin. He became withdrawn and angry; lashing out when you reached to him with an anchor in your hand as if he favored the unforgiving currents pulling him under. 

The time you spent with him before he left again hurt worse than when he was gone. He longed for the sky like a bird with a broken wing. It was within reach, so close and so impossibly far from his grasp. He pushed you away, convinced you would never understand the resentment he carried towards civilian life and the utter inability to conform to it. 

Perhaps he was right. You’d shouted it yourself one night until you were both hoarse and in tears. You would never understand, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t _try,_ that you didn’t love him any less. 

You’d seen the way the war had hurt him. It shoved nightmares to his dreams and panic in his veins. It made him hypervigilant and paranoid. It isolated him from his friends and family. It made him feel like a monster in the skin of a man, pretending to be someone he wasn’t; smiling through aching muscles as if he were a portrait hanging in a museum. 

He pretended to be fine. He pretended to try. He never was. 

It didn’t surprise you the day he told you he was going back. 

Still – you begged. Despite the tears, the months of heartache and panic attacks and night terrors, you were desperate for him to stay. You were desperate to rebuild what the war had broken between you. You loved him and it wasn’t enough. 

After he left, you tried to pretend as he did – that everything was fine, that you didn’t feel an ache in your chest at the thought of him, that you were a woman waiting on your soldier to return home. 

He was more himself when he called. He became the Riley you remembered in the beginning; full of hope and eager to prove himself. He smiled often and laughed as his friends teased him for the blush in his cheeks when you appeared on the screen. It was those moments that encouraged you to hang on, that reminded you why he was worth the pain and heartache. 

Those moments gave you hope that this time would be different. When Riley came home, the two of you would be just fine. The soldier and his girl. 

Always optimistic. Always sunny. Always finding silver linings. 

You should have known better than that. 

*** 

Mrs. Jefferson was surprised the day you showed up at work dressed in shades of grey and black, returning the piles of books you had yet to read. 

“You should go home, dear,” she eased, slipping the glasses from the bridge of her nose to rest on the beads against her chest. “It’s too soon for you to be at work.” 

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. You didn’t put much effort into the lie but you couldn’t stand to be in your apartment another second longer. It was too quiet, too empty. You’d never lived with Riley but his things were scattered around your place. The Air Force shirt sat crumbled at the foot of your bed. 

“Honey, you forget that I know what you are going through,” Mrs. Jefferson sighed, placing a trembling hand over yours. You paused. “Be patient with yourself. Have kindness for the man you lost. You’ll see the sun again, my dear. I promise.” 

You didn’t know whether it was the tenderness in her words or the way her aged hand curled around yours that broke you. Tears blurred over your eyes and you sank into her embrace as she drew circles against your spine. If the visitors noticed your grief, they did not say anything. For that, you were grateful. 

*** 

It took time before you could think of Riley without crying. Months, maybe, but it was progress. Sam stopped by daily in the beginning, showing up with coffee and donuts from Luciana’s and forcing you to get out of bed just to open the door for him before he woke the neighbors. You’d come to expect him and started to ready yourself before he arrived. 

He swung by after work some days with takeout and some weekends he dragged you to his friend Steve’s house where they watched football and you filled your stomach with nachos and buffalo chicken dip. 

He taught you to smile again despite yourself because Sam was infectious no matter how deep the void you’d caged yourself in. It was impossible not to return his smile, impossible not to try for a man who so genuinely wanted you to succeed. He was Riley’s partner and he knew Riley on a level not even you had seen. Sam grieved different than you did, but he grieved nonetheless. It was something you shared in. Something you overcame together, too. 

The day he brought you to the VA, you’d dragged your feet the whole way. 

“Trust me, kid,” Sam urged, yanking your hand along the sidewalk, but you planted your feet. Sam rolled his eyes. “Do it for Riley.” 

Your jaw dropped, though Sam started to smirk. “Don’t evoke Riley’s name to guilt me into working for the people who took him from us, Sam!” 

“I’m guilting you into _volunteering._ Let’s make _that_ clear,” Sam retorted. “I’m not paying you shit.” 

You laughed despite the frown on your face. 

“Second, these guys aren’t the big shots who sit in their cozy offices while our boots on the ground see the real fight,” Sam said, squeezing your hand. He wasn’t teasing anymore. His smile was genuine as his features softened, a sad sort of memory on his mind. “They’re guys like Riley, Y/n. Guys who could use the help he should have had.” 

Your lips parted, unable to come up with an excuse to say next. You thought of Riley curled up on the floor with his hands pressed over his ears as fireworks lit up the sky on New Year’s Eve. You thought of the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless dreams and the toll it took on your relationship. You thought of the shame he felt for pushing you away, for being unable to stop himself from hurting you, too. 

You shook your head. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, Sam.” 

“Just come with me to the open house,” Sam tried, tugging on your hand and this time, you let him drag you a few steps. “If it’s too much, I won’t push it again…” he bit his lip, “until next year.” 

“Fine!” you laughed, falling in stride with him as he fist pumped the air in victory. “I don’t know how Riley put up with you for so long.” 

“With much reluctance,” Sam snickered. 

It felt nice to be able to talk about Riley without it hurting. It still ached, but it was a pleasant ache – like maybe remembering him didn’t have to be a bad thing, like maybe it could bring you a little joy, too. 

Sam brought you into his office first to draw you away from the crowds. It gave you a chance to take off your coat and ease yourself into the surroundings before Sam inevitably threw a handful of strangers on you with terrible stories and sad faces to convince you to stay. 

“I just gotta find a file for Steve and we can head out to the main room, alright?” 

You nodded, taking the time to look around Sam’s office. It wasn’t anything like you’d pictured it to be. You’d expected it to be in chaos – disorganized, with papers stacked high on the desk and a basketball hoop hanging over the trash bin – but it was rather professional. He had awards framed on the wall, metals encased in glass. File cabinets labeled and not a pen out of place. 

But it was the photo sitting on his desk that drew your attention. You picked it up, recognizing Sam at the center in his Air Force uniform and a younger, more doe-eyed Steve Rogers who stood beside him dressed in army greens. But there was a third man hanging off Sam’s left shoulder you didn’t know. 

He was handsome. Smile bright enough to rival even that of Sam’s. With short, brown hair and eyes as blue as you’d ever seen, you wondered whether his face might be one you’d see out in the crowd of veterans gathered in the lobby. 

“That’s Bucky,” Sam grinned, pointing to the man in the photo. “He’s still out on tour.” 

You handed Sam the picture, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously, and he seemed to enjoy how flustered you were. 

“He’s scheduled to be home next year though,” Sam added, studying for your reaction. “I’ll see if I can get him to swing by if… you know… you’re _volunteering_ here.” 

You glared at Sam until he broke into laughter. 

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the regulars,” Sam grinned, grabbing your hand and dragging you out into the crowd in the lobby. 

You knew before Steve’s presentation on the services at the VA even began that Sam had tied your heart with string to this building and the people in it. You saw Riley’s face in everyone who shook your hand – from the petite, red headed woman with a questionable background and kind eyes to the son of a billionaire who had joined the Air Force in rebellion and found he rather liked being just ‘one of the guys.’ 

It was as if you could feel a hand on your back, urging you forward, into the arms of these people and the compassion they could give to you. You wondered if Sam knew that it would be as much a kindness to you as you could be for them, to be able to give your time to this place. Ideas began to spring in your mind of how you could bring your love of books to your work here and how much you’d missed reading yourself. 

Maybe this place could heal you, too. 

It took a single glance from Sam across the room to know he’d convinced you. He smiled, raising a glass of cheap red wine, and nodded. It was the first time in months you’d felt a glimmer of hope, a reason to be excited, a possibility for good amongst the broken. 

You clung onto it with everything you had. 


	14. Bonus Chapter: Closure

You didn’t realize you were lingering in the back seat of the taxi until the driver cleared his throat, gesturing to the expired meter. Vision coming back into focus, you turned to find Bucky holding the door open for you, a pinch in his brow of concern. Sunlight danced down from over his shoulders, the cool breeze slipping through his hair. Hanging from the reflective onyx of his left hand was a bouquet of flowers. 

“Coming, sweetheart?” Patience coated Bucky’s voice, a gentle smile on his lips. 

You spared a short glance to the driver whose eyes met you in the rearview mirror – unreadable and impatient as he tapped his fingers on dashboard. You muttered out a quick apology and took Bucky’s hand. The air was crisp against your skin, the smell of freshly cut grass and the chirp of birds lingering around you. It had been a while since you’d ventured this far out of the city, to the town you’d grown up in. 

Bucky’s right hand felt sturdy against your own – something real and tangible – as he tugged you forward beyond what your feet allowed. He offered a squeeze as you stepped onto the cobblestone path. You tried not to look at the sea of tombstones around you or the flowers planted at the head of the graves. Ribbons propped up on iron stands and wreaths honoring fallen heroes. 

You followed the familiar path, weaving through pathways and following a guide you’d thought was long forgotten. Bucky didn’t say a word as he allowed you to lead him through the cemetery, but you could feel his gaze lingering on the headstones bearing remembrance ribbons. A soft, saddened smile ghosted his lips. 

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking or that you’d found your destination until Bucky squeezed your hand again. 

Riley’s name stared back at you. Etched in stone, barely weathered since its marbling. A garland hung around the headstone, likely courteous of Riley’s mother judging by the stunning arrays of pinks and reds in the flowering. A gold ribbon sat at its base. You didn’t allow your eyes to drift to the dates listed under Riley’s name, to be reminded of the dash that connected the year he was born to the one that stole him away. He was so young… _so young…_

Bucky nudged the bouquet into your grip, but you clenched your hand to a fist, unable to take it. If he was thrown by it, you couldn’t tell. Instead, you felt the warm touch of his lips press to your hairline before he knelt down over Riley’s grave and set the flowers under his name. 

Bucky took his time returning to you. His right hand still entangled in yours, though the metal of his left rested at the top of the headstone as if laying upon a shoulder. You could see his lips moving, a breath of a laugh in his voice, though you couldn’t tell what he was saying. 

When he was finished, Bucky brushed the blades of grass from his knees. “Do you want some time alone?” 

You shook your head. You hadn’t been to the grave since the funeral and Sam had barely been able to keep you upright then. You’d hoped it would be easier with Bucky at your side, but a paralyzing guilt swarmed in and plagued through your body— _physical_ as it warped in your stomach, your entire body clenched as if it were made of stone. 

“Is this wrong?” you whispered, a tear slipping over your cheek. The breeze kissed it away. “Do you think… Is it wrong of me to bring you here? Would he… Would he be angry with me for—” 

“No,” Bucky replied sincerely. He gathered you into his arms, the firm pressure of his left holding you steady as the gentle embrace of the right ran soothing patterns along your spine. “No, sweetheart. If Riley was anywhere close to the man you’ve told me about, I know he’d want you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you to close yourself off to the world for his sake. I know that if things were reversed, I wouldn’t want that for you, either.” 

You nodded into Bucky’s chest, daring a glimpse at the headstone as you held him tightly against you. 

“He’s a part of you. I understand that,” Bucky eased, no trace of jealousy on his tongue. “I’m honored that you asked me to come with you, that you wanted me to meet him. I owe Riley a lot. I owe him my life, I think.” 

You squeezed your hold around Bucky’s waist, understanding. Without Riley, you would have never crossed Bucky’s path, never would have met in the empty library at the VA or got coffee at Luciana’s or fallen in love under the oak tree in the park. You shuddered to think about what would have become of him if he’d never left his apartment that day, if he’d kept himself holed up for an eternity, blind to the light. 

“It’s a selfish thought, I know,” Bucky admitted. “I hope wherever he is, he knows that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of and loved. Riley was a good man, Y/n. He deserved to come home. He… He deserved this life.” 

The life _Bucky_ currently had. 

He didn’t say it aloud, but you knew that was what he meant. 

The truth was, you weren’t certain if you and Riley would have made it together, even if he did come home from his second tour. He would have wanted to go back again and you would have let him, just to see him smile through the video screen. His nights at home would have been spent in agony. 

Riley _was_ a good man. A man determined to fight for his country, even if it cost him everything. Including you. 

“He would have liked you,” you mumbled into Bucky’s sweater. 

“I fell in love with his girl,” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not too sure about that.” 

A smile lifted your cheeks, settling a hand against his chest to lift your gaze to his. Blue eyes shined back at you. 

“You were right, though.” The smile that graced Bucky’s lips was enough to ease the tension in your muscles. You felt the breeze nip at your ankles, drawing you closer to his embrace. “You make me happy. Riley would have liked you on that alone.” 

Bucky kissed at your temple as you turned to face Riley’s name upon the stone. The flowers danced against the gust of wind as it picked up a petal fallen at the roots. You watched as it swirled up into the air, spinning and fluttering as it were simply made to fly.

“We should head over to Sam’s before dinner gets cold,” you said after some time. 

“He’d have our heads,” Bucky agreed, a laugh in his chest purring against your ear. 

He started to lead you back to the road, but he stopped when he felt your hesitancy. Your eyes were drawn on the headstone, lingering. Bucky’s lips grazed the crown of your head as he pulled away from you, stepping back as he nudged where you needed to go. 

You sighed, taking the last few steps up to Riley’s grave alone. Slowly, you bent to your knees, placing a tentative hand over the grass. Six feet below, you hoped it still laid over his heart. You closed your eyes, your fingers curling into the warm comfort of sun soaked greenery. 

There weren’t words to convey what you’d wanted to tell him in that moment. 

The aching of his loss. The regret you felt when you’d allowed him to leave. The missteps in your relationship. 

The love you would always carry for him. The gratitude in leading you to Bucky. The healing you’d learned by befriending Sam. The gifts he’d given you in his absence. 

The pink petal that had been twirling amongst the breeze landed on your fingertips. The feather light sensation of it nearly slipped your notice. Tears slid over your cheeks, though they were born of a bittersweet relief. You turned your hand over to gently grasp the petal in your hold, running your fingers over the smooth edges. 

Sensing Bucky’s eyes on you, the pride beaming on his face, you tucked the petal into your pocket. He extended a hand to you and when you rose, you didn’t feel the weight pushing down on your shoulders. The presence of the petal in your pocket granted you its lightness. 

And as Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, you felt the gentle push of the breeze as it drifted you closer to his embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok folk. This is the end. Thank you for the love and support!


End file.
